


Spartan Songs for the Wounded and the Aching

by headraline



Category: God of War, God of War (2018) - Fandom
Genre: ALL THE SPOILERS, Atreus is a sweet summer child and I'll protect him with my life, Brace yourselves, Dad of B O Y, Gen, I can't stress this enough, I mean it's a God of War fanwork what are we expecting here, Inaccurate Greek, M/M, Mimir the real MVP, Other, SPOILERS for the whole God of War game, Spoilers, You Have Been Warned, all the non-con is in the past and just referenced from time to time, and pining, but they will come along, hence the rating and warnings, inaccurate Norse Mythology, more tags to come, no real mature themes at first, norse gods, oh and the most important tag of all, so many spoilers, so much pining, this is me blatantly indulging my newly forming daddy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-02 03:31:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headraline/pseuds/headraline
Summary: "He won't come, you know?" He tries again, voice hoarse and strained both from the lost battle and the altitude, "I mean... whoever this "he" you keep mentioning is. You have the wrong person."His captor just lets out a raucous, hacking laughter. "So you're one oftwoSpartans in Midgard and you'd have me believe it is what? A coincidence?""I have always liked to travel.""He knows you're here. And even if he doesn't, the dwarves'll tell him. And then he will not be able to resist coming.""You overestimate my importance." He tries, hoping to be right, forhissake. "I'm no one to that person.""Váli, is it?"The God of Vengeance turns to face the newcomers. "Ah. Just the man!"Kratos is standing before them, young Atreus not far behind.For the first time in his young life, Atreus sees his father completely at a loss for words. Well, except for one."...Arkaios?"





	1. Frostbite

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so.  
> It's a leap from my usual fandoms and there clearly isn't enough love around for these bois. Or should I say **B O Y S**.  
>  Heh.  
> Either way.  
> Original characters, amirite?  
> I won't even try to hide this may or may not be a blatant self-insert, hopefully tampered down to a believable and non-cringeworthy character.  
> Idk, 2018 Kratos absolutely fucked me up. Metaphorically, though I wouldn't mind the literal part either.  
> Like, goddamn.  
> Fun fact, apparently "Arkaios" written as it is means "terrible, awful" in Greek, according to Google Translate. I guess parents -or authors- have a cruel sense of humor in Sparta.  
> I have also been told that a meaning for "Arkaios" is “new with reference to a beginning point”, so.... that applies as well, who would've thunk.
> 
> Oh and yeah -I used google translate for the few Greek lines here, so translations are probably wildly inaccurate. Full disclosure.

The air is thin and biting on top of the mountain. The Spartan had been woefully unprepared for how cold Midgard would be, and his plate armor is doing no favors to his frostbitten skin. Not to mention the whole business with being tied up and dangling off the precipice of a cliff, but those are worries for when he can actually do something about it. Right now, he has to keep his captor talking, so he can find out what in the Nine Hells is going on here.

"He won't come, you know?" He tries again, voice hoarse and strained both from the lost battle and the altitude, "I mean... whoever this _"he"_ you keep mentioning is. You have the wrong person."

The northerner just lets out a raucous, hacking laughter. "So you're one of two Spartans in Midgard and you'd have me believe it is what? A _coincidence_?"

"I have always liked to travel."

 _That_ line earns him a punch to the side of the face. It hurts. Almost as much as _his_ punches did. The Spartan has to shake out the daze from the hit as his captor, luckily, doesn't pick up on his ruse and keeps talking:

"He knows you're here. And even if he doesn't, the dwarves'll tell him. And then he will not be able to resist coming."

"You overestimate my importance." He tries, hoping to be right, for _his_ sake. "I'm no one to that person."

Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because his captor smirks. "So you do know Kratos."

"Anybody from Sparta with half their wits knows Kratos." It isn't technically a lie. Not many people know him by name, but the Ghost of Sparta is known widely enough. "You're wasting your time. He will _not_ show up."

A slap this time, backhanded on the other side off his face. His captor laughs again. "You think too low of yourself! A pretty, lithe young thing like you? I know _I'd_ fight to have ya. That's what you were for, right?" The northerner asks, and the blood in the Spartan's veins starts boiling enough that he forgets the merciless cold for a second, "I mean, you couldn't have been a _soldier_ , considering the performance that led to you dangling from my ropes."

Sure, because an entity that most likely is at least a demigod against a mortal who's half-starved and half-frozen to death after a journey of _weeks_ is _such_ an honorable fight. He starts shaking and struggling against the bonds, danger of falling to his death be damned. "You say that to me when I have my dagger back, you worthless piece of—"

"Váli, is it?"

The God of Vengeance turns to face the newcomers. "Ah. Just the man!"

Kratos is standing before them, young Atreus not far behind, looking confused about who these people are and what they want with his father.

"What do you want?" Kratos’s voice is level and impassive, betraying nothing on his feelings or intentions.

The tied Spartan smiles to himself. He got better at that.

Váli shrugs one shoulder. "I want passage into Helheim."

"I cannot give you what you seek." Kratos moves to go back, but the God of Vengeance points a finger towards Atreus.

"Sure you can. With _his_ help."

Kratos moves again, to stand in front of his son and shield him from danger. "We have no interest in helping you, and you do _not_ want this fight."

"You're right, as I am now, I don't... but I have something _you_ might want!" Stepping to the side while still holding his end of the rope, Váli shows the now struggling and shaking figure on the other side of the pulley, ready to fall should the loose end be let go of.

For the first time in his young life, Atreus sees his father completely at a loss for words. Well, except for one.

"...Arkaios?"

" _No_! No, no, no, mighty warrior that I have _never met before_ , you must be confusing me with some _other_ Spartan!" He has always been a terrible liar. The panic on his face and his renewed thrashing about obviously gave him away, but at this point Arkaios knows they're all screwed anyway, so who cares.

Atreus wants to ask a million questions to his father –who is this person? How do they know each other? Is he really from Sparta too? How does he know him? Why is he here?– but their time is clearly limited and Váli seems to have decided he's had enough.

He opens his hand just long enough that the pulley slides a couple feet and gives a rough jerk when he grips back –making Arkaios grunt roughly with the impact of air and rope against his chest.

Everything stops, suspended as the younger Spartan's body.

"So here is the deal." Váli says, extending the arm holding the rope to show how easy it would be to let go, "You make the boy open the way to Helheim for me, and I let this one live."

"I told you, you're wasting your time!"

The God of Vengeance doesn't even give him a glance as he keeps his attention on the other two. "Am I? Kratos?" He asks instead, "Should I just let the _whore_ die?"

Kratos is silent, but draws his axe.

Váli smirks. "Oops."

The instant the captor releases the grip on the rope is also the moment Kratos throws his Frost Axe at the pulley. Arkaios only slides the few seconds before the weapon hits the wood, freezing everything in place.

For that one instant, nothing moves.

It is Atreus who finally breaks the spell, firing one of his stun arrows right at Váli's neck, giving precious advantage for Kratos to charge and swing a punch –he can't recall the axe, and he won't use the blades unless he absolutely has to.

The fight that ensues is quick and dirty: Váli doesn't seem too interested to kill him just yet, and stays mostly on the defensive; but he's not above throwing in some cheap shots. One dagger in the thigh later, thrown in Kratos's leg just after lobbing a boulder at his face –which, while easily countered, distracted the Spartan enough for the God of Vengeance to find an opening– and Váli is gone, disappeared at a turn of the head.

The following silence is deafening.

Slowly, Kratos walks up to the pulley system, and grabs he rope. Holding it steady, he finally recalls his axe, now free to pull the other up and hoist him to safety.

Arkaios says nothing, and refuses to look at Kratos even as he cuts the ropes around his chest with one swift downward swing of his axe.

"What are you doing here, Arkaios?"

"Oh you know." Still not looking him in the eye –not many can quite look the Ghost of Sparta in the eye while being disrespectful and live to tell the tale, "The north is _so charming and rustic_ , I love it to little pieces."

There's a twitch in Kratos's mouth that might almost have been amusement, but it's fast gone as he grabs the younger Spartan by both arms and shakes him roughly, repeating his question, only with less patience and more growling. It’s the first time Atreus hears him speaking his native language.

" τι νομίζεις ότι κάνεις εδώ, Αρκαιοσ?"

*

Arkaios has indeed always been a terrible liar. So, rather than lie to his former general, he remains silent, eyes downcast.

The stretch of silence makes Kratos notice Atreus, who has slowly stepped closer and closer until he is standing between them, at their left side, tiny fists clenched at roughly his heart's height and eyes sparkling with his childlike wonder and curiosity.

Kratos braces himself, counting three, two, one...

"Are you a Spartan? Did you fight by father's side? Did he teach you things?"  There the boy goes, eager and fast-paced like someone who just escaped death doesn't need. "Were you a soldier? Are you a God, too?" Atreus only slightly slows down when his keen eyes pick up on some key details: "Hey, your lips are blue... should they be blue? Father, should his lips be blue?"

The Spartan manages a choked chuckle, before frostbite starts finally getting the best of him, as his eyes roll upwards and he passes out, still on his feet, awkwardly propped up by the hold Kratos has on both his biceps.

"Um. I'm guessing the answer to that last one is no."

"Indeed." Kratos lowers the unconscious lad down and motions to his son for help: "Unclasp those plates, the metal will freeze him to death." He orders; and they both make quick work of Arkaios's chest plate, "We have to warm him, before the cold takes him."

Thinking fast, Kratos takes off his own chest piece, layered with fur on the inside, and drapes it around the other's chest –Arkaios is much smaller and the armor doesn't fit at all; but at least the fur, already warm with Kratos's body heat, will keep the young man away from the claws of death some more.

"We have to get down from this mountain. And then..." for a second, he stops. And then what?

“We could… take him to Freya?” Atreus’s hopeful proposal pull a grimace from Kratos.

“She still hates us for killing Baldur and jumpstarting Fimbulwinter.”

“Oh. Right.” To his credit, the boy is only sad for a moment, before taking a deep breath and focusing on the urgency of the situation: “Brok and Sindri it is, then!”

“What do you think, Head?”

Mimir has been very careful not to utter a single word the whole time Váli was there, looking for all intents and purposes like any decapitated head that is not magically reanimated.

“Hm. Yes, brother.” He says, with slight reluctance, remembering the dwarves having ‘plans’ and ‘measurements’ for him, “The dwarves do have a forge. It’ll warm this little icicle right up.”

Half worried and half exasperated, Kratos grunts and moves towards the travel door they can see not too far away. “Then we go.”

There’s an innate sense of wrongness, as they travel the path of the realm between realms. The body in his arms feels much too fragile and brittle to be a Spartan, to be one of his old soldiers. ‘Old’ as a relative term, of course. Arkaios was hardly older than Atreus is now, when he begged a then younger Kratos to let him join his army –the boy’s family had been slaughtered by barbarians, and at the time Kratos understood and even endorsed feelings of revenge. He let Arkaios join provided he pulled his own weight… and pull he did.

He wasn’t as strong or as proficient with weapons as older, more muscled soldiers, but he never complained about the training or the treatment, was always in good spirits even though they’d only let him tend to the horses and help the smith in the first couple of years, and would sing to the wounded to ease their pain when it was too much to bear in silence.

Kratos can admit to having wondered once or twice what remained of his army after the destruction of Zeus and all the disaster that struck in and around Sparta. He distantly hopes more of them survived, though he wishes none other would be stubborn enough to find him – _one_ insane, bull-headed young man was enough. It almost makes him smile. _Almost._

But those are thoughts for later. Right now, they have a young man to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *what Kratos says here should be no more and no less than a "what the hell do you think you're doing here, Arkaios?"  
> but, again, as I stated at the start, very likely wildly inaccurate because Google.


	2. Reforged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conversation dies down enough for his ever-earnest and curious son to pose the question:
> 
> "...but what are you going to do now?"
> 
> "It is my fault Váli found you, and I am in your debt for saving my life –twice over, since I haven't forgotten Avernus." Kratos is taken aback – _he_ nearly had. Arkaios goes as far as kneeling before him. "Allow me to stay and fight under your command, at least until Váli is defeated. You know how much my oaths and my dagger are worth; it is for you to decide what to do with both."
> 
> Atreus is looking at him with a mixture of glee, hope and worry.  
> There's no real way out of this.
> 
> "Rise, Arkaios. You will not fight under my command, but by my side. I am the Ghost of Sparta no longer. Understood?"

Brok’s voice meets them as soon as they step into the forge:

“If’n you’re looking to take another wife, Mimir can fuckin’ officiate for ya.”

Logically, Kratos can see where the dwarf’s words are coming from: Arkaios is slender, downright petite if compared to _him_ , with long and messy auburn hair and thin legs. But still. The poor man is barely covered in anything but Kratos’s pelt-lined chest piece and almost dead, actually making the joke is just terrible form.

“It is _not_ a woman. It’s a Spartan, and he’s nearly frozen dead.” He says gruffly, stepping past both and laying Arkaios down at a close but safe distance from the forge. “He will need armor suited to the weather once he wakes up.” Dropping an amount of silver to cover the cost of a full body armor and then some, he specifies: “Make it effective but lightweight, for a warrior that values flexibility and speed over anything else.”

Sindri briefly eyes his brother, and then turns towards Kratos: “We’ll need to take some measurements.”

But the Spartan stop them with a gesture of his arms before they try to uncurl Arkaios’s form; and then motions for his son to come to him. “Atreus. Give me a piece of paper from your journal.” The child blinks confusedly, but complies. Kratos passes the paper to Brok. “List the measurements you need, and I’ll fill them in.”

Brok is very tempted to make some kind of uncouth joke, he knows there is one somewhere here, but Sindri’s earnest curiosity is faster: “You know measurements for the lad?” he asks, while Brok simply writes down the requirements and hands the paper back to Kratos.

Atreus could swear his father’s tone is almost amused as he answers the question with a question, while writing: “What _don’t_ I know about this lad?”

It makes all the other three occupants so damn curious that Mimir shouts out in frustration: “Oh for fuck’s sake, just tell them it used to be one of your soldiers before their heads explode.”

Kratos manages barely a grunt before Atreus does explode, but with questions. “I knew it!!!” he exclaims, almost hanging off his forearm, “How long was he a soldier? Was he a good one? How do you think he got captured?”

“Slow down, boy.” His father says, affectionately patting his head –which is still a special enough occurrence for Atreus to immediately go quiet, “He joined my army after his family was killed, he was very young. He was… not the strongest soldier, but definitely the fastest, and a good one indeed. I do not know. Váli probably took advantage of his frostbitten and unaware state.”

“Váli? Yikes. What have you gotten yourselves into?!” Brok is already hammering away as he asks.

Kratos can feel irritation building up underneath his skin. “I do not know. He wanted passage into Helheim and somehow _we_ were supposed to give it to him.”

“That’s because he’s a God of Vengeance. He only knows violence and murder, and is thus not allowed in the Temple of Tyr. Travelling between realms is difficult for the likes of him.” Mimir explains, “Aren’t you glad you’re better than that, brother?”

The clear jab at his past, however in good faith, is enough to have Kratos unhook the Head from his belt and deposit him on the work table. “You’re suddenly very talkative. What do you know?”

“However angry Freya is about Baldur’s death, she knew it would happen. The prophecy foretold him killed by accident by his own brother, but your presence here seems to have changed that. Váli was conceived for the sole purpose of avenging Baldur’s death.”

“Comforting.” Atreus rolls his eyes, “So we have another crazy God after us, now?”

Mimir’s glowing eyes gaze pensively at both father and boy. “Well, your presence changed the events quite a bit, Váli was expecting to have to kill Hodr –which is just as well, they absolutely loathe each other– but I’d wager he’s not at all too happy about you two messing up the web of fate.”

“Still… he had his chance in the mountain. Why did he run?” Good question, Atreus.

“My guess? He’s not strong enough yet. He is younger than he looks, and nobody thought Baldur would die anytime soon.” Mimir, ever so knowledgeable, answers, “And to take on someone strong enough to get the best of Baldur… no one would want to go into that unprepared.”

“If he wants so badly to kill father, why try and bargain with us for access into Helheim?”

“Does it matter?” a third, unfamiliar voice asks, quite hoarsely, “He is pissed and wants you dead. In my past experience, there’s no reasoning with that kind of people. Right, Commander?”

All eyes turn to the now-awake Arkaios. Atreus is the fastest to act, running to kneel by his side. “Don’t try to move just yet. Keep this around you. Are you okay? Do you want to drink?”

Just as the child turns towards his father, Kratos tosses him his canteen. “Drink. The dwarves will have something for you to wear soon.”

“Thank y—”

“Then you will explain why you are here.”

Knowing all too well that tone, Atreus flinches –along with the young Spartan, who has also clearly been exposed to _that_ tone before. _He really seems to know father well._

“Well hullo there princess.” Brok teases, hammering away a few details from the chest piece, “Ain’t ya a bit scrawny for a Spartan.”

“Careful, dwarf, you’re the perfect height to shut your mouth with something that’ll be unpleasant for us both.”

While Sindri just gags, utterly scandalized, Brok laughs wholeheartedly. “I like ya already.”

“What does that mean, father?”

Never before had Kratos been so uncharacteristically uncomfortable about answering one of Atreus’s question –not when the answer was so mundane and simple. He is spared the embarrassment when Arkaios chuckles:

“Such a sweet boy.” He comments, patting Atreus’s hair, “He has your eyes, Commander.”

The only reason Kratos doesn't physically recoil at the title is that he taught himself better control than that. "Stop that. I'm no one's Commander anymore."

Arkaios doesn't falter either. "You never stopped being mine."

"Even after I abandoned Sparta and everything in it?"

"You abandoned it because there was nothing left for you there, except bad memories." It rings true; and yet Arkaios lowers his gaze as he speaks, "As did I."

Neither has noticed the people around them going silent just to watch the exchange. Kratos, ever so stoic and impassive, deflates slightly, speaking with a slightly more tired voice: "What happened, Arkaios?"

The younger Spartan dares to look back up to meet his gaze.

"Without you, the garrison dissolved. The people left started rebuilding; and they decided they... don't need the unpleasant reminder of what caused it all. Most of the boys left. Some for Macedonia, others for the South... I didn't know where to go, so I wandered aimlessly until I caught wind of some madman getting tangled with Giants and Gods in the North."

It might have been Atreus's imagination, but he could swear he sees the corner of his father's mouth quirk upwards slightly.

"And you just couldn't stay away from trouble."

Arkaios goes far enough to toss a wink in Atreus's direction. "I learned from the best."

It makes laughter bubble in the boy's chest alongside amazement. He had thought all Spartans to be similar in character to his own father, with the only exception of his namesake, but here this not-quite-stranger is, all easygoing smiles and cheeky banter. Not even mother talked to father like that –they were more in the realm of reserved, but disgustingly sweet to each other in the silence.

As it is, Kratos shakes his head and stands up, picking up Mimir to tie him back to his hip, and turns to the dwarves: "How long until it's cool enough to wear?"

"It's just about ready." Sindri assures, "Along with warmer bottoms than that poor excuse for pants the lad was wearing."

"Ah. Thank you." With no hesitation, Arkaios gets fully up and strips off Kratos's chest piece plus what remained of his tattered clothing to wear the new and better armor the dwarves so kindly provided.

In his near-infinite knowledge and smarts, Mimir sees fit to make one particular comment. "This quite the fine height to be dangling from, today!"

Arkaios, who had been too out of it to notice the talking head before, turns with a start, trousers just barely pulled up; and the absurdity of a talking, severed head even makes him miss the comment about his backside.

"You are being crass in front of my son, Head." Is all Kratos says, but all the same he turns, making Mimir face a nice blank wall to the side.

"Oh come on, brother. Surely his mother explained the birds and the bees to the boy!" Mimir chuckles, "It's only good that he learns about the birds and the, uh, birds. Or bees and bees. It was common enough in Sparta, was it not?"

It surely was. Kratos remembers distinctly having to subtly police his soldiers so that the more vicious ones wouldn't jump at the chance to sink their teeth into the younger and fair skinned ones. Arkaios never once complained and never once ratted out any of his comrades, but on some days Kratos would see fresh bruises on his back and hips and _know_. Voicing an admonishment or dealing out punishments would have only served to make Arkaios seem unable to defend himself, and possibly evoke harsher retaliation. So Kratos kept as close tabs as he could on the young soldier without making it apparent; and silently rooted for him every time he was left to fend for himself.

His son's voice speaking to Mimir breaks through the haze of memories:

"So what you're saying is... you think Arkaios is pretty?"

"Bless your heart, little brother." Is the Head's only reply. Brok is cackling madly at this point, and even Sindri is struggling to contain his laughter.

Arkaios has finished getting dressed in the meantime, the dwarves made a nice composite pauldron for him, with chainmail on the sides for mobility and the right shoulder free from plates for ease of throw, waist guard also with chainmail down the outer sides to accommodate for wide movements. Kratos actually looks a little proud. He steps towards the younger Spartan, and pulls out a curved dagger from his waistband.

"Here. You will look more like yourself."

Arkaios is taken a back for a moment, but accepts the dagger with an expression so grateful it might as well be adoration.

"I thought it lost to Váli."

"I extracted it from his thigh and tried to stab him in the throat with it." Kratos explains, "When I could chance a good look at it, I recognized it and thought to keep it."

Arkaios bows low, messy hair spilling over his shoulders. "Thank you, Commander."

Kratos nearly does flinch at that one. "Stop calling me that."

"What should I call you, then?"

"My name will do."

Arkaios's gaze snaps up, only to drop back down. "Oh, I couldn't dare."

"Fuckin' Hel, princess, d'ya think any of us bother with formality 'round here? I dun even know the man's name!"

For the second time, Arkaios stops short, absolutely confused. Váli had known.

But then again, Kratos is not the most sociable person, and if Atreus only ever called him 'father', chances are Brok and Sindri have never heard his given name spoken out.

"Speaking of names..." the young Spartan eventually says, "Mine is Arkaios. Thank you for crafting this fine piece of armor for me." He extends a hand for Sindri to shake, but the clean-obsessed dwarf just sidesteps behind his brother, who instead shakes vigorously and nods with a chuckle.

"Why, thank ya. It's nice to see _some_ one appreciate the masterful work we do."

Kratos says nothing, but Atreus giggles quietly behind his hand.

"Will you introduce me to your son... Kratos?"

In all the confused rushing to save his life, there really hasn't been the time for formalities... but considering they're safe now, or -well- mostly safe, they might as well.

"This is my son, Atreus."

Predictably, Arkaios's lips curl into a fond smile. He was close with Atreus of Sparta after all, Kratos remembers; closer than any two comrades had ever been, and Arkaios was the one that most greatly mourned his passing. He extends his forearm to the child.

"You have a dearly precious name, Atreus." He says, as the boy shakes his hand as firmly as a thirteen year old can –which is, in his case, pretty damn firmly, so much so that Arkaios makes a show of being surprised by Atreus's strength: "And you're definitely your father's son!"

Never having been faced before with such easily dealt praise, Atreus practically beams at him.

Kratos just watches them silently, until the conversation dies down enough for his ever-earnest and curious son to pose the question Kratos is _sure_ is slowly forming in Atreus's lovely brain:

"...but what are you going to do now?"

He anticipated uncertainty, even a complete lack of planning, but what he gets instead is the young Spartan patting his son's cheek and turning to face _him_ , with absolutely no hesitation.

"It is my fault Váli found you, and I am in your debt for saving my life –twice over, since I haven't forgotten Avernus." Kratos is taken aback – _he_ nearly had. Arkaios goes as far as kneeling before him. "Allow me to stay and fight under your command, at least until Váli is defeated. You know how much my oaths and my dagger are worth; it is for you to decide what to do with both."

The silence that follows is poignant. This isn't the vivacious, careless spirit that Kratos remembers; sure the surface is the same, if a bit rougher around the edges, but just under the skin Arkaios has changed –he's quieter, more controlled, and more aware of his own limits... Kratos can only imagine what happened to him to slam headfirst into the one lesson even _he_ wasn't able to hammer into the young man.

Brok and Sindri are looking so engrossed in the conversation that they stopped even pretending to be working, and even Mimir has gone silent.

Atreus is looking at him with a mixture of glee, hope and worry.

There's no real way out of this.

"Rise, Arkaios." He calls; and has to close his eyes at how readily the man obeys –he could probably strike him down with his axe and the fool would _thank him_. "You will not fight under my command, but by my side. I am the Ghost of Sparta no longer. Understood?"

"Understood!" The radiant smile on Arkaios's face could almost give Atreus a run for his silver.

"This is _so_ _amazing_!" The boy in question exclaims, "I have never met any of father's friends before! There's so many things I wish to know!" Atreus takes Arkaios by a hand and almost bodily drags him around the workshop, "Was he very different before?"

"Well, the beard is new—"

"Was he really angry all the time?"

"Um, at the time, he had a reason to—"

"What happened to Avernus? What's an Avernus anyway?"

Arkaios chuckles, overwhelmed by the boy's enthusiasm but unwilling to disappoint: "Avernus is a place, my young friend, a _cursed_ place."

Predictably, it makes Atreus gasp. "Cursed?"

"Yes." The Spartan confirms gravely, although he is now smiling excitedly, "The lake of Avernus conceals the passage to the Underworld where we’re from. If you fall in, and touch the bottom, you belong to the dead.”

Atreus is obviously hooked. “No!”

“Yes!” the Spartan can barely hold his chuckle, “We were there on a war expedition, and had to ask the Sybil for a prediction on our enemy’s movement. Now, Sybils always require a payment and this particular Sybil pointed a finger at me and asked for my voice.”

“Your voice? How can someone take a voice?” the boy asks, confused, which is when Mimir perks up again:

“You spend your time talking with a severed head and travelling between realms and taking someone’s voice is where you draw the line, lad?”

Kratos raises his hand to briefly stroke his beard to try and not let it show that he was about to laugh.

Arkaios shrugs: “I don’t know how she would have done it, but when the Sybil demanded that I swim into the lake to find the necessary ingredient for the spell that would take my voice, I obeyed.”

Kratos remembers it well now. Arkaios, as everyone else in the garrison, knew that it was a death sentence, and yet he agreed with a smile. Coming to think of it, he would have been probably content to join Atreus of Sparta in the Underworld. Still…

“It turns out that it was a ruse, and a test of our resolve. If we had failed, the Sybil would have had my voice _and_ my soul to barter with the Muse Euterpe as she pleased.”

“Muse?”

“A spirit of art, child. There are nine of them where we come from. Euterpe was protector of song, music and lyric poetry. And, apparently, my own mother.”

Atreus is practically on his toes. “What?!”

“Yes! My father never told me, and he was killed when I was very young… but the Sybil was positive it was the truth, and that the one gift my mother left to make up for her absence was some sort of unknown power in my voice.” Now that’s a storyteller that will make Mimir’s tales pale by comparison. “But even as I swam unknowingly towards certain death, your father gave the order to surround the lake and jumped in after me. He dragged me out before I could even realize I was slowly dying, and then stormed the Sybil’s chamber, ready to kill. But The Sybil? She was unhappy at having lost her chance to bait the Muse, but she was satisfied by both my loyalty to my Commander and his care for his soldiers. He proved that, however ruthless, he was still capable to _save_ a life instead of destroying it, so the Sybil gave us the information we needed, and the following battle was won.”

“Whoa. That’s _some_ story!”

Atreus’s eyes are wide with wonder and he is looking back and forth between his father and his new friend. The Spartan nods as he swipes a piece of rope from the Brok’s workbench to tie his hair back. “Indeed. So I’ve been saved twice over now. I simply cannot bear not repaying my debt.”

Also, with his family dead and people in Sparta fearing and hating what’s left of the Ghost’s army, he literally has nowhere left to go –but Kratos doesn’t voice that.

“Enough.” He says instead, sounding every bit like the commander he claims not to be, “If you feel good enough to move, we should take you somewhere you can eat and rest. After that, we start looking for the reason why Váli wants passage into Hel.”

“Sir yes, sir.” Arkaios replies, winking at Atreus when he notices the child doing the same.

The blue rune doorway does make the Spartan jump, now that he is conscious to see it, but Kratos ‘encourages’ him to go through by pushing a hand behind his shoulder blades. “Proceed without fear.”

Yet again, Atreus is surprised by the level of blind trust this man has in Kratos –Arkaios instantly stops hesitating and steps into the blue mist… his father must have been a great Commander indeed, if this man is still so loyal even after years apart.

They reach the cabin in almost no time, and Arkaios’s body seems to only then realize he nearly froze to death. He suddenly feels very drained, and would have toppled forward if it wasn’t for Kratos grabbing him by the forearm: “Rest. Regain your strength. I will go fetch some food.” Guiding the smaller man to one of the beds, he then turns towards his son. “Atreus. Start a fire.”

“Yes, father.” The boy is fast to work, and Arkaios passes out with a smile as the last thing he sees is Kratos giving a proud smile at the boy’s turned back.

When he regains consciousness, it’s to the delicious smell of cooked meat. Atreus is sitting cross-legged by his side. “Eat!” he offers cheerfully, “Father is outside, butchering the rest of the deer and salting its meat for keeping.”

“I… thank you, child.” Arkaios accepts the plate and starts eating –he hadn’t noticed how hungry he was until the first bite hits his mouth. He digs in enthusiastically, making Atreus giggle as he watched him.

"Sorry." He mumbles after swallowing a last mouthful, "I just really needed that."

"It's okay." The boy says, dutifully taking the plate from his hands to go and clean it at the washbasin, "I'm not my father."

Arkaios rises, and moves to take the plate and rag from the child. "You definitely are not." He says, patting the boy's head, "That is still no reason to disrespect you."

They finish cleaning up in relative silence, until Atreus starts asking questions again, so curious about this man that looks like he's been plucked out of his father's past and plunged into the present.

"Why do you wear your hair so long?" He blurts out, fingers reaching up to curiously touch the messy tresses, "Father always says it's an invitation for the enemy to behead you."

Arkaios lets the boy run fingers through his hair for a while. "You could say the same about that long beard of his." The process is the same: you grab, you yank down, you swing the blade. He lets Atreus ponder it for a while; then, fast as a whip, he grabs the boy's wrist and twists it away, careful not to hurt him but swift enough to get the point across: "Anyone wanting to behead me must be fast enough to grab me before I grab them."

"F-fair point." Atreus concedes, shaking out his wrist once released.

With a chuckle, Arkaios moves to tickle him in the sides, but the child instinctively lashes out and grabs both his wrists in a vice grip that would make his father proud.

"What was that?!"

"Easy! I was just going to tickle you!" The Spartan explains, blinking away the surprise.

"Why?"

"...you have never been tickled before?" Arkaios wonders why he's even surprised. With what Kratos went through, of course he'd treat raising his child like training a soldier –it's been long enough that he probably doesn't remember the first thing about being openly affectionate. He nods in his own hand's directions. "I won't tickle you if you don't want me to. It's something people do for fun. It makes you flinch and laugh."

"Really?" Clearly, the boy is now curious.

Arkaios smirks. "You want to find out?"

Kratos is called back inside by a sound so unfamiliar it scared him before he realized what it is: his son's uncontrollable, unrestrained laughter. He just rushed through the door, axe drawn and ready for anything, and is left blinking dazedly at the scene of Arkaios kneeling on the floor by Atreus's side, as the boy kicks out and laughs, trying to prevent the other's fingers from poking his sides. Out of the two, Arkaios is the first to snap at attention –the boy is still shaking with leftover giggles, and slumps on the floor before finally noticing his father and sobering up.

"What... was that?"

"Tickle wars, sir. Useful training in trying to control your own body when it seems to fail you." The fact that such an answer was delivered with a straight face makes Atreus suddenly realize that Arkaios is definitely _not_ only devout obedience and respect –there's more than a hint of mischief in his eyes as he gazes expectantly up to Kratos, struggling to keep his face neutral.

His father, while not particularly moved, seems grudgingly amused, at least.

"I see." He says, shaking his head, "That'll be enough of that. Let's go to the Temple of Tyr."

After all, Váli doesn't have access to it, for whatever reason, so they will have some time before they have to worry about fighting yet another God.

The blue door takes them to the bridge, and they're just waking to the entrance when nightmares sprout from the ground. Five of them, not a huge threat by any stretch of the definition, but hungry for human flesh and firing at them. One spawns right in front of Arkaios, and Atreus has never seen someone move so fast –not even his own father– as the Spartan throws himself backwards, hands touching the ground and left foot connecting with the bulk of the beast's body in a kick that knocks it back just enough for Kratos to throw his axe at it and kill it where it floated.

His father made short work of two more recalling the axe to his hand and throwing it in an arc that spanned between the two creatures, while Atreus himself fires three arrows in rapid succession at another, using the fourth to call the wolves and finish it off.

The fifth one has floated higher, and is about to fire straight at the boy –it's out of range of his blades and the angle is no good for an axe throw. Kratos thinks fast: "Boy! Fire on my mark!"

"What?!" Atreus readies an arrow, but is doubtful –the creature is way too far up for a decent arc.

Still, his father points and yells "Now!"

Atreus fires, watching the arrow fly way too low...

...and then getting deflected upwards by the flat side of a dagger: with a small running start, Arkaios has stepped on Kratos's knee and used his offered arm as a trampoline to jump and intercept the arrow. It pierces the beast from the bottom up. Not enough to kill it, but more than enough to stagger it to the ground. Arkaios throws his dagger, finishing it off and watching it dissolve into black smoke.

That was... honestly pretty amazing. So that's what father meant when he told Brok to think of a warrior of utmost speed and flexibility.

"Fine work, lads!" Mimir praises as Arkaios retrieves his dagger, while Atreus is still slightly starry-eyed: that move looked practiced. Kratos must have been familiar enough with Arkaios's fighting style to think of using him as a wild card against enemies. Could it be, his gruff and cold dad might _actually have a friend_?

Sure, Mimir is a friend, in a manner of speaking; and Atreus also considers Brok and Sindri his friends, but his father has always given the impression of just barely tolerating them... this slightly lanky man with the messy hair and easy smile is the first person Atreus has seen pull out friendly banter from father's mouth.

"It's good to see you haven't become rusty." Exactly, like that.

Arkaios laughs fast and easy. "Did you hear me say anything about _your_ age?" He counters, battle adrenaline making him daring enough to slightly poke Kratos in the side with his elbow, "Because I _could_."

Kratos narrows his eyes at him, and the light-hearted bickering is all but gone. He ignores the jab with a grunt, and Atreus knows the conversation is over. Glancing at the other man, the boy sees Arkaios doesn't seem at all bothered by being brushed off –then again, Atreus knows that the only reason father stayed silent is because he had nothing to counter that with, and smiles privately to himself with amusement at the thought, as they all enter the Temple.

"So, what's the plan?" The boy asks, approaching the tree.

"We could scour the realms to find out what Váli is doing, or trying to do." Kratos suggests, unhooking Mimir from his belt and bringing him at eye level: "What do you think, Head?"

"You know, I'm still baffled that it talks."

"And I'm baffled that something looking like you do came along _after_ I haven't any hands anymore, but you don't hear me complaining, do you now, lad?"

" _Head_..."

Arkaios shakes his head and chuckles at Mimir's pass, while Kratos is clearly not amused in the slightest. The Head rolls his glowing eyes. "Fine, brother. You want to find out what Váli wants? Go where he wanted you to take him. Much as it pains me to actually suggest this, go to Helheim. Look for clues, runes, scriptures. The answer is somewhere there."

"Hopefully we won't have to cross the Bridge of the Damned to find it." Atreus hasn't forgotten the whole fiasco that was technically his fault.

"Aye, let's hope not, little brother."

And just like that, Arkaios watches silently as Kratos starts the mechanism that, apparently, opens the door to yet another realm of the dead.

"What?" He asks, noticing the stare of his former soldier.

"...nothing." Arkaios shrugs his shoulders and smiles a slightly contemplative smile: "I guess I should be used to you bending the very fabric of the universe like it was nothing. I keep forgetting you're far from the average person."

That's right –it suddenly dawns on Atreus– they are Gods, and have been through impossible, mad adventures. Arkaios is, however connected to whatever a Muse is, only human. What Atreus has come to consider normal must seem extraordinary to mortal people. He suddenly feels slightly self-conscious.

"Get ready." Is all Kratos has to offer, and they walk the path between realms until the door that opens to Helheim appears.

It's really damn cold.

Kratos draws his blades, rather than the axe, and Arkaios has a visible stutter in his breath. He must have known those from before. And there’s clearly a story behind them.

Fighting their way through the damned is not particularly difficult, with all three of them together, but maneuvering to stay out of reach and detection from the giant, ominous bird is. A rockslide tumbles them into a crypt of sorts, and Atreus finds another one of those painted wooden panels, affixed to the stone.

"Whoa!"

"What does it say, boy?"

Atreus studies the panel, interpreting the faded scriptures as best as he can. "It's... this is Váli, I guess? But he is... bigger. On the inside. Better than what he is. Was?"

"Aah, yes." Mimir intercepts, "With Baldur's death coming before the predictions, Váli's body, ever so young, is not ready to take on the force that ended Baldur. That's why he didn't fight you. He needs strength. A considerable amount of it."

"I don't understand." Arkaios looks quizzically at the panels, brushing his fingers curiously on the never seen before artwork, "What can a realm full of dead people do for him, then?"

"Good question! Not just a pretty face, are you?"

Fed up with Mimir's dawdling, Kratos bristles. "Answer the question if you know, Head. If not, cease your yammering."

Atreus doesn't always agree with his father's treatment of Mimir, but he guesses it is rather weird to hear him talk to Arkaios like that. The boy won't believe for a second that Mimir is actually trying to ‘court’ Arkaios: the Head knows better, and wasn't even fazed when they met Sigrun, so Atreus guesses any real feelings of that kind were left behind with the rest of Mimir's body... and  even if, it still seems awfully arbitrary: not once has the Head spoken of his courage or his will to stick with them and do the right thing. If Atreus ever wanted to compliment someone, he would not pick something as mundane as looks –especially if that someone was a warrior.

But Mimir clearly has his reasons, and he's still the "smartest man alive", however debatable is the 'alive' part. Either way, he laughs and finally answers the question:

"Without the Valkyries keeping the dead in line _or_ the Guardian of the Bridge, who do you think will keep watch over all of these souls?" He says, glowing eyes struggling to look up at Kratos from where he dangles at the belt, "If someone were to build shrines with the right runes –or have his monstrous minions build them, all the unguarded souls could converge into one's body and provide immense amounts of power."

Well fuck, as Brok would say.

"That's... kind of disgusting." Atreus comments, "Is power worth the idea of having dead people inside of you?"

Kratos sighs. "To some, it is. And _then some_."

It's a grim thought none of them really wish to entertain any longer, and the boy steps away from the panel. "Okay, so how do we prevent this from happening?"

"A good start is going back to Midgard and making sure he doesn't spawn any creatures to control and send here to build the blasted things."

See? Smartest man alive. Or reanimated.

"Then let's not linger in this place." Kratos is already eyeing the chain resting at the top of the rock wall in front of them, and motions to his son. With practiced ease, he hoists Atreus up and over, and the boy tosses the chain down.

Kratos grabs it and tries to pull some to test the weight, but the whole thing is rusted through, and the links in his hand crumble into dust, letting the rest of the chain fall pitifully to the ground.

Figures. Even metal is dead in Helheim.

Kratos's frustration is interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

"Get me up there and I'll pull you up." Arkaios says, smiling and not at all bothered in a way that brings back memories of miserably long and draining expeditions brightened by laughter and songs.

Still... pull _him_ up? Kratos knows exactly how heavy he is. Plus weaponry. The younger Spartan seems to read his mind: "Don't give me that look. I'll manage."

With no other real alternative, Kratos offers his joined hands for Arkaios to leap off of.

Heavens, he is _barely_ heavier than Atreus –how long has he spent travelling from Sparta to here, without being able to sit down and have a proper meal?

It is not a question for this particular moment, and Kratos shakes himself from his uncharacteristic worry as he looks up and finds Arkaios leaning out and down, offering both arms.

With a small leap kicking off the rock wall, Kratos manages to grab the younger man by the forearms, and Arkaios grunts with the effort of pulling him up –Kratos thinks well to help him along by bracing both feet against the rock and pushing himself along.

He goes over the ledge all at once, landing on his all fours while Arkaios is jostled on his back beneath him from the momentum. For once, Kratos is unable to help his amusement. "So much for 'managing'." He remarks, prompting a challenging smirk from the other.

"You're up here, are you not?"

"Hmpf." He had almost forgotten Arkaios's ability to back-talk while still looking like the very picture of innocence. It was irritating, back in the day, but here, in this world where most inhabitants either fear him or loathe him... someone with the gall to _tease_ him is a welcome change. He gets up and brushes himself off; checking his weapons for nicks or bumps, while Arkaios stays on the ground a couple more seconds, presumably catching his breath.

The walk back to the doorway is silent, and Kratos notices his own knuckles are scuffed with blood. It's nothing worth looking at, but it makes him realize a grave negligence on his part: they're absolutely unprepared in terms of treating wounds and injuries –back in Sparta none of the soldiers had to bother, but they're not in Sparta anymore, are they?

"We should get down to the docks, to gather some—" a massive boulder thrown in their general direction interrupts his words as they all leap and scramble away.

"So you _do_ have access to Helheim!"

 Váli. Of course he followed them here. They can just be grateful the God didn't arrive in time to actually enter Helheim and can’t access the Temple of Tyr on his own.

Mimir didn't see, but the leap and the following crash are a pretty decisive clue.  "Well this just took a turn for the worse!"

They have the time to ready their weapons, as Váli keeps his distance still, but soon enough they are surrounded by draugr and trolls.

“Why are they doing his bidding?” Atreus asks, between a dodge and an arrow,

“Well I’d wager Váli got himself some binding magic. Not at all uncommon to wield, if you know the right runes.” Mimir’s words bring their minds back to the shrines used to imprison dragons –if such magic existed and was enough to affect dragons; lesser beasts surely were even easier to control.

Luckily, lesser creatures are no match for the former Ghost of Sparta, and the enemies soon start to crumble before them. The only blunder in the whole thing is a moment Atreus has a lapse of judgment:

“Look out, father!” he screams and dives between Kratos and the creature attacking him from behind, trying to take aim at it, but he can’t quite fire the arrow in good time and the monster flings him away with a strike of his clawed hand.

At the very least, the disruption gives Kratos ample time to swing his axe and cleave the monster from the neck to the hip. “Atreus!!”

Still, a father worries.

“I’ve got it!” Arkaios slits the throat of the creature in front of him, using its crumbling form to vault over it and leap to the boy. He kneels by Atreus’s side in one swift slide and checks him for wounds.

“I’m—I’m ok…” definitely his father’s son, the child tries not to be slowed down, but he is bleeding from where the claws caught his side. It’s not life threatening, but it probably hurts a lot on a child this small.

“You will be fine, boy.” Without thinking twice, Arkaios starts to hum a tune, while applying some pressure to the wound.

Kratos had always known the young soldier’s voice had the power to ease the pain of the wounded, he did it plenty back in the garrison and the whole mess in Avernus confirmed it, but it looks like it’s slightly more than that. Under his very eyes, the blood pouring from his son’s wound actually slows down, as if the calming melody was putting the wound to sleep.

“You haven’t bested me yet, Spartan!”

Kratos doesn’t even think when he hears Váli’s voice shouting his hate, and throws out his chaos blades in a warning shot. Predictably, the half-formed God retreats, with one last loathing look at all three of them.

“Well, lad? Don’t make me worry, how is it?” not being able to see it, Mimir is understandably worried about Atreus's condition –he has come to deeply care for the boy, after all, like a… weird, decapitated uncle.

"He is cut, but it is shallow and I can close it." Arkaios assures, opening the fasts on Atreus's armor to expose the cuts and turning to Kratos: "Did you happen to save any other of my belongings other than the dagger?"

"There wasn't much worth saving." He answers, reaching however into his pack, "But these looked important enough."

A small pouch, containing a powdery mulch that might be some kind of root, and a canteen, holding a transparent liquid that definitely doesn't smell like water.

Arkaios smirks. "Important, or tasty?" He asks, taking the offered items and getting to work quickly all the same.

"Enough of your smart tongue. Tend to the boy."

Ah, terrified fathers. Truly the treasure of humanity. Arkaios resumes humming as he opens the canteen and pours a few drops of the liquid on the wound. It makes Atreus hiss and raise his head, which promptly gets supported by Kratos's large hand, while the young soldier keeps working, scooping a generous help of whatever the strange root extract is and warming it in his hands. "This is going to sting." He informs, nodding towards the canteen, "Let him have a sip."

Kratos raises an eyebrow at him, but Arkaios is unaffected, as efficient in his care as he was playful about the situation before he actually had to concentrate. "The boy is old enough to fight and kill creatures from other realms; he's definitely old enough for a few sips of ouzo to numb the pain."

Fair enough. Kratos grabs the canteen and accosts it to Atreus's lips. Arkaios looks at the boy with a smile. "Στην υγειά σας."

**

"Stin ygeiá sas? What?"

"Just drink, Atreus." Kratos's voice has softened, hearing his son barely mumble out the words, "Not too much. Just a little. There you go."

There are little things in this world more adorable than what is usually a stoic and ruthless warrior softly cradling his son's head and whispering reassurances. And as things are right now, Arkaios can't think of any. Wisely, he refrains from commenting on it and keeps on humming until the mulch in his hands starts glowing, and he can run his fingers over the cuts on Atreus's side to spread the ointment.

Predictably, the child hisses and flinches regardless of liquid courage, but Kratos keeps him steady. "I know, boy. I know. You are doing well."

The ointment keeps glowing on Atreus's skin, and Arkaios keeps humming for a little while more, letting both hands rest at the sides of the wound as he does so, until the ointment seeps into the skin and the glow starts to fade. He finishes with a sigh.

"If you have some bandages, it would secure the wound while the skin mends itself. It will be a while still, but he should be fine come nightfall."

"Healing song." Mimir seems mildly taken aback, which is a feat in and of itself, "I'd heard _about_ it, but to hear it in action..."

Kratos himself seems impressed –well, as impressed as one who has seen all that he has can be. One thing he definitely is, though, looking straight in the younger warrior's eyes, is grateful.

"Thank you." He doesn't even remember when he has ever had to utter such words last, but he doesn't mind them now, not when Atreus could have easily been taken from him.

Kratos is no fool and has led armies to war long enough to know that even minor wounds, left forgotten, can mean death if they fester. Especially on a young child. And with Freya now wanting him dead, he would have been left alone with no idea how to treat his boy, had Arkaios not been here.

The young soldier seems just as shocked as Mimir feels to hear Kratos thank anyone, but they still make quick work of bandaging the boy's side and redressing his armor.

The silence gets interrupted by Atreus, who coughs slightly and shakes out his head.

"Man, that thing tasted awful. What is that?"

Arkaios shifts his attention to him. "Nothing too bad." He says, guiding him gently to stand up, "Do you feel good enough to move?"

Patting himself down for a moment, Atreus nods and falls into step with them, favouring his injured side, curiosity immediately taking over the pain and fear: "That was incredible! How does it work? Is that the power in your voice? Can you teach me?"

Both Arkaios and Mimir chuckle at the boy's endless energy, and even Kratos is privately amused.

"I cannot, it is just something that happens." The young Spartan explains, while they resume their walk, "I can control it some with particular ingredients and words, but it isn't something that can be learned."

"Aww! But that would be so useful! Wouldn't it, father?"

Atreus's words are only met with a non-committal hum, which is admittedly slightly hypocritical considering moments ago Kratos was looking at Arkaios like he had just saved the whole world, but they can't dwell too much on it either way:

"We should take the boat and go gather for more healing supplies."

"There's an idea, brother!"

After all, he indeed never had to bother in Sparta, because every army has a designated healer and it's their responsibility to have what's needed to care for the wounded... and even after starting to travel alone, used as Kratos was with his high threshold for pain and endurance, it hadn't occurred to him to change his habits; but now he realizes it was a major oversight on his part. Possibly, he had simply been overconfident that he would keep Atreus unhurt at all times -which is clearly not possible in a world full of creatures that want them dead.

The foraging goes well, they take some basic roots and ingredients and some stranger ones at Arkaios's request, and they've barely made it back to the Temple of Tyr when the sun starts to set.

"You're not thinking of heading back out, are you, brother?" Mimir asks when Kratos spends a good amount of time looking at the blue doorway in silence.

With the aid of the blue doorways, it wouldn't be too much of a chore, but still...

"Stay the night!" Sindri intercepts, "The Temple is secure, sanitary and there's plenty of space. We can put together a cot or two for you guys."

Kratos exchanges a look with Arkaios. It feels strange to have someone who knows how you think to deliberate with, but he gets the response he was expecting when the smaller man nods. Atreus needs proper rest to recover fully, and the Temple of Tyr is certainly more securely warded than any old cabin in the woods, especially at night.

Reluctantly, Kratos accepts Sindri's offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of the real start of the story, also setting the bases of why Arkaios is so blindly devoted to someone like Kratos -let's face it, Kratos is NOT a good person by any stretch of the definition.  
> But I mean.  
> We all have our flaws.  
> And if Hanzo and Genji's storyline taught me anything, is that everyone who actually makes an effort to be better deserves a chance at redemption. Right?  
> Right.  
> Idk, I'm kinda impulse-posting before I can back down.  
> I wonder if anyone is even reading this.
> 
> **"Stin ygeiá sas" is no more and no less than just "cheers".


	3. Soothing Balm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mimir eventually breaks the silence:
> 
> "He hasn't got the foggiest, has he?"
> 
> Arkaios whips his head around so fast his own hair hits him in the face.
> 
> Smartest man alive indeed.
> 
> "Not one clue."

Sindri actually smiles at the father and son sitting in a corner of the Temple, bringing supplies along.

"Think nothing of it!" The dwarf assures happily, as he pulls up some fabric over an improvised cot later that evening –Kratos hadn't said anything, but even Sindri is starting to learn the man's tells: the somewhat stiff shoulders and avoidant gaze make it clear that he's grateful but doesn't quite know how to convey it– "It's the least I can do after you saved me from a dragon!"

"A dragon?!" Brok exclaims, from his side of the hall, "Now that's a story I _gotta_ hear!"

"Oh shut it, you!"

The two start bickering and Atreus doesn't bother to conceal his laughter –even though it ends in a yawn. "Arkaios?" He calls when the other comes to check his bandages, "What was it like? In Sparta, I mean."

Arkaios raises both eyebrows and opts to brush stray hair from the child's forehead instead, "That's a question with a long answer, boy."

"Then give me a short version." The boy presses on, bright round eyes beaming tiredly at him. "Please?"

How does Kratos ever say 'no' to that face? Arkaios shakes his head, and sits himself at Atreus's side with a sigh.

"In short? Tough." He says, absent-mindedly stroking the child's head. "We were taught early on to be obedient and respectful, and to learn how to fend for ourselves because in battle no one else would look out for us. Sleep or meal deprivation was a common practice to get us used to the lack of both during long war campaigns, and also served to make us resourceful and stealthy when the hunger was potent enough to convince us it was worth breaking the rules -provided you were not caught, stealing food was forgiven, even encouraged as an exercise in skill."

"Whoa." Atreus turns to look at his father, and Kratos just nods to confirm the truth in Arkaios's words. "Were your parents that strict, too?"

The warrior nods. "Affectionate regard for deserving young boys was allowed, but to overly indulge in it was considered shameful."

Arkaios phrased it in a cleverly vague way, but the "affectionate regard" he speaks of extended to companions and lovers are well, male or female they be. There was nothing wrong in having a lover, as long as it was kept quiet and didn't make one 'soft'. Thing which made many older men –to whom all youngsters owed respect and obedience– use such unspoken rule as an excuse to treat their lovers... less than well, just to show how _not_ soft at all they were. For a long time, after his first wife's death, Kratos could almost have been one of them. His 'luck' was that his enraged and vengeance-driven mind was every bit one-tracked, leaving no room for any 'useless' distractions.

Not liking the direction his own thoughts are going into, he calls to Atreus. "Boy. It's late. Sleep, now."

"Psh, I'm not even tired!" Atreus protests, eager to hear more tales, but the relaxing sensation of Arkaios's fingers still stroking his head and the man's very subtle humming have the boy asleep in less than five minutes.

"Just so." Arkaios whispers, moving to drop a kiss on the child's forehead but thinking better of it at the last moment, instead kissing the tips of his own fingers and brushing his knuckles over Atreus's head.

"You still do that?"

Kratos's whisper startles the younger soldier –he didn’t think the older man still awake. Suddenly self-conscious, Arkaios swipes at the corner of his own lips as if something was staining them.

"Well. Last I've done it was yesterday before you found me, and the pouch was lost to the snowy cliff. It will have worn off in a couple of days." In the past, some of his comrades belittled Arkaios for lacing his lips with poison, since most if not all Spartans fed themselves poison in small doses since childhood to make themselves immune to it, but it has given him the edge against non-Spartan enemies and even saved his hide more than once. It helped that his boyish looks often led his adversaries to not only underestimate him, but also to prey on him sexually.

Once they were close enough, it always was easy for Arkaios to get his lips anywhere on his assailant's skin and drop them dead. Some of his comrades called it cowardly. Arkaios called it the Kiss of Death. Privately, Kratos always thought it a tactic not to his tastes, but still remarkably smart of Arkaios to turn a perceived weakness into an upper hand.

"You always were a strange one." Is all Kratos says, finally lying down after depositing Mimir on a bundle of covers Atreus had dutifully prepared for the Head not to have an uncomfortable sensation in his throat stump. Arkaios smirks at the older man in return.

"Am I supposed to take it as a bad thing?"

Kratos regards him for a few seconds from where he's lying down, pensive. Eventually, the corner of his lips does tilt up.

"No."

He doesn't say anything more and turns to the other side, but the young Spartan's eyes are still brighter than the meagre fire they're keeping up for warmth long after Kratos's breath turns regular with sleep.

Mimir eventually breaks the silence:

"He hasn't got the foggiest, has he?"

Arkaios whips his head around so fast his own hair hits him in the face. He's startled by the Head's perceptiveness, but only for a second.

Smartest man alive indeed.

"Not one clue." Trying to deny it would be futile, and it's been long enough that Arkaios is desperate to talk about it with someone. His chuckle is only slightly bitter. "He knows I admire him immensely and will forever be grateful to him for taking me in and saving my life, but... he has no idea of the extent of how much he means to me."

If he had had a body to support him, Mimir would have nodded sympathetically. "You should tell him."

"While he's still mourning a loved one and with a child to raise?" Arkaios scoffs at the very thought. " _Poor form_. Also he probably wouldn't believe me."

The confused glowy stare is enough for the young warrior to realize Mimir doesn't quite follow.

"He... doesn't believe himself possible to be loved by anyone. Not after..." the words don't quite come out. In his lifetime, Kratos has done many terrible things. Extenuating circumstances notwithstanding, Kratos has more blood on his hands than most men. Heavens, Arkaios himself has plenty of blood on his hands that he spilled in Kratos's name. Neither of them are particularly good people. But does that mean no one could ever love them? Arkaios shakes his head again.

To Kratos, it did, at least until Faye. She hadn't cared to know all the sordid details of his intricate past, believing firmly that a man's valour is in his choices in the present and future. But someone who _knows_? Worse even, someone who _was there_? Who _saw_ the monster he had become? No. It would be impossible to look past all the oceans of blood, tears and murder.

Arkaios can’t be certain about it, but his guess is close enough that he knows better than to speak his feelings and drive his former Commander further away.

Mimir is pensive for a long time; and he startles when Arkaios flicks his nose.

"So you should stop making passes at me, Head." He says, messy hair shaking about as he frees it to sleep, "You may be the smartest man alive, but that doesn't mean Kratos is in any way stupid. Even if he wouldn't know why, he'll figure out you're trying to get a reaction out of him; and you _don't_ want him mad at you."

"Oh I know _that_." Mimir has seen the infamous Spartan rage more than enough times to know that even if he doesn't have a body anymore, an angry Kratos _would_ find a way to hurt him. "Pity, though. I thought I'd be helping you out."

It is said easily enough that it sparks the question in Arkaios: "Why would you? You barely even know me."

"Take it from the recently freed, lad: no one deserves to be imprisoned like that. Not even by their own feelings."

It's a very noble notion for a decapitated head, and they share a companionable silence while Arkaios slowly pats out the fire. "For what it's worth, I appreciate the sentiment."

The defeated acceptance makes Mimir feel a pang in the ghost of his heart for this stubbornly devout young man. "Get some sleep, lad." He suggests; and for the first time in a while Mimir actually feels as old as he is. Still. He doesn't really need to sleep anymore, so he takes it upon himself to keep watch over these lads and raise the alarm, should the need arise, if he can literally do nothing else.

 

When Kratos wakes up, he finds that Atreus has, during the night, rolled out of his own cot and into Arkaios's; and the sleeping Spartan has, by the looks of it, simply drawn his covers over the child and hugged him close, to keep him warm and comfortable on his good side. It's objectively adorable.

It's also a prime example of the 'shameful displays' that would receive ample amounts of punishment back in Sparta.

Funny how things work out sometimes –they're not in Sparta anymore, and last he heard the old ways had fallen through anyways, leaving the city-state in utter shambles. Good riddance.

Still, he has to keep some semblance of authority, and wets his hand with the canteen before splashing a few droplets of water in Arkaios's face.

"Quietly now." He warns as he watches the younger man blink himself awake, "Let the boy have a few minutes more rest."

Considering what Atreus sustained just yesterday, Arkaios would gladly let the boy have a few more hours, nevermind minutes. He breaks gently from the hold Atreus has subconsciously got on a messy strand of long hair, smiling at the tiny sleeping form.

"Such a sweet child." He whispers in Kratos's direction. "He really does have your eyes. And, by the looks of it, your endurance."

Another thing Kratos seems immune to is praise. Oh he will discreetly beam with pride at any compliment thrown in Atreus's direction; but the very second something is about _him_ Kratos has absolutely no idea on how to accept it, and just stays silent.

It’s painful to watch. Mimir knows he promised Arkaios not to interfere anymore, but would it be so bad, really? To accept affection from someone who clearly has been wanting to give it a long time?

If only Kratos actually spoke his mind to him. But the only person the man actually trusts to that degree is his thirteen years old son.

…huh.

There’s an idea.

“I will go in search of something for the boy to eat. He will feel drained and hungry when he wakes. You quickly scout the area immediately surrounding the Temple and then double back.”

And there’s the chance. Arkaios nods, grabbing his curved dagger and donning his armor, not hesitating one second about following Kratos’s orders, bless his heart. Mimir takes the chance before Kratos can pick him up: “You can leave me here a little while, brother.” He says, “I can watch over the boy for you.”

The way Kratos fixed a decidedly unimpressed look on him tells Mimir the man doesn’t have much faith in him as a guardian.

“Hey. If anything at all happens, I can shout and wake the dwarves with a whole workshop full of weaponry.”

That is true enough to satisfy even an over protective father, and he concedes, turning to Arkaios.

“You have a quarter of an hour.”

_To scout the entire immediate perimeter of the Temple?!_

Mimir isn’t even surprised when Arkaios nods again, albeit he hastens his preparations and leaps towards the door. “Understood.” Hopelessly smitten, that one.

Heavens know what he even sees in the angry lump of a man.

Well, maybe he’s being a bit unfair to Kratos here. He’s only seen the man’s harsher side directed to himself, but it stands true that he is an affectionate father in his own ways, and clearly loved his late wife well enough to risk his neck a thousand times over just to grant her dying wish.

There’s something to be said about that. But enough introspection.

“Psst! Little brother! They are gone!” oh yes. Mimir knew, of course, that Atreus has been only feigning sleep in the last few minutes.

“How did you know I’m awake?” Despite himself, the boy still rubs tiredly at his eyes as he carefully sits up in his cot. “Wait, don’t even answer that.” It’s at moments like this that the ways in which Atreus takes after his father shine through: “You’re up to something.”

“Smart lad.” Mimir doesn’t even try to deny anything –truth is much more entertaining after all. “So. Everything happened very quickly yesterday. I’m curious to hear what you think about this Arkaios fellow.”

The child actually takes the time to pause and think about his answer. “Well. He is kind and funny. He looks up to father a lot…” the thought gives him some more pause, “A _real_ lot. It’s… weird. Like if father told him to jump off a cliff he would just smile and do it. Which I don’t understand. But I still think it’s good that he is here. Father is so alone in Midgard. The presence of an old friend can only be good for him. Someone he doesn’t have to explain himself to.”

“When has your father ever explained himself to _anyone_ , little brother?”

Atreus has to concede that point. “Fair enough. But you know what I mean!”

Mimir does know. Kratos had, after all, kept the truth about himself from his own son in the hopes of sparing him the terrible knowledge of a past like his. To be in the presence of someone that knows, has seen it first hand and still respects him as much as Arkaios does… it might very well help Kratos come to terms with what he can’t change anymore, and actually make good on his tall talk about being better from the present on.

All the more reason to try and kindly get through the obstinate bastard’s skull that the lad absolutely adores him, in more ways than one. Which brings him back to his talk with the boy. “Aye, that I do! What do you think your father thinks of him?”

“Oof, that’s some question…” Atreus ponders, as he starts folding away the covers to his cot. “He definitely trusts Arkaios enough as a warrior to have him along, and likes him well enough. Well, as much as father likes anything. Why do you ask?”

Subtle. The question is posed lightly and with an air of disinterest, but it’s there. The boy is on his side.

“I’m just curious, you know?” he plays the fool a little longer, to see if Atreus catches up to him. “The lad goes to great lengths to please your father. The very reason he came to Midgard in the first place was to find out whether he was alright or not.”

“Wait!” the boy’s voice lowers, on the off-chance his father returns and is angered by their speculations, “You don’t think… Arkaios has feelings for father? As in, romantic feelings?”

Atreus, you sweet summer child. Arkaios has practically outwardly told Mimir of an unrequited love that has lasted longer than the boy has been alive so far just last night, but the Head implicitly promised not to tell. “Well, I can’t be too sure.” He says instead, “But all that respect and loyalty come from _some_ where. Right?”

That much is undeniable and plain as the day. Even Kratos _has_ to know that, at the very least; Arkaios’s devotion to him goes well beyond a normal soldier’s. But Spartan customs hammer respect for the authority almost as a religious belief, so the former Ghost of Sparta probably can’t quite separate that ingrained behaviour from genuine adoration in his mind.

Which translates into, as Mimir succinctly put it at night-time, _He hasn’t got the foggiest._

Atreus’s expression goes pensive. He hasn’t known Arkaios for very long, but he likes him. He likes that the man is willing to tell him stories, he is grateful that Arkaios would care for his wound after barely having even met him, and he liked falling asleep to the reassuring feeling of a hand stroking his head. He likes Arkaios, and wants him to stay.

Mimir seemingly reads the boy’s mind, and smiles at him. “What say we find out exactly how well they like each other?”

Atreus smiles back. “What do you propose we do?”

“For one, you can stop sitting around doing nothing, and get a fire going again.”

Arkaios’s voice makes Atreus jump –Mimir can’t because he doesn’t have feet, but the sentiment is very much there– but the Spartan just chuckles, sign that he hasn’t been there long enough to hear their conversation and be angry about it. Still. He’s incredibly silent. A very useful skill in battle –Atreus makes a mental note to ask him how he does that, later.

Once the fire is ready and waiting for Kratos’s return, Arkaios gestures for Atreus to come closer. “Off with the armor, child. Let me take a look at your wound.”

Atreus raises his arms up and the Spartan makes quick work of unwrapping the bandages. There are faint scars on the boy’s side, pink and sinewy and fresh, but the wound as it is does not pose any danger of reopening any time soon. Arkaios nods to himself, satisfied. “You’re good to go. Favor that side for a while still, if you can, but you’re as healthy as can be.”

“Whoa!” not for the first time, the boy is astounded –he may not know everything, but he knows battle wounds and definitely knows how painful it was to be clawed in the belly by a draugr. Left to his own devices, he would _not_ have been this well healed. He redresses himself, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he leaps forward and hugs Arkaios. “Thank you.”

The Spartan is taken aback by such an open display of affection, but eventually returns the hug, softly patting the back of the child’s head.

Atreus has only been hugged a precious few times by his father, but he still knows what it feels like. The thought that someone as kind as Arkaios seems grew up in a place where hugs were considered shameful gave him the urge to somehow make up for the affection he has missed out on.

After all, the man’s expectations must be incredibly low for him to follow Kratos -of all people- like an obedient puppy… Atreus dearly loves his father, but can admit he definitely isn’t the type to get close to people. Or let them get close.

...Yikes, Arkaios really needs all the hugs he can get.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is most of what I've got written. Sorry this is much shorter than the previous one, consistency hasn't graced me with her presence yet.  
> There's a few scenes I have in my head that I'm DYING to post, one of which already written out, but they come at a later date.  
> Sigh.  
> Just take this and let me indulge.


	4. Devout and Defiant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He extracts the dagger from his belt. “This will hurt.”
> 
> It’s out of Kratos’s mouth before he can even realize: “Do I not get a drink to numb the pain?”
> 
> It's worth the cheeky smile. “You did this to yourself. You don’t _deserve_ a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo there's a bunch of links at the bottom for references to things in the chapter.
> 
> Kthxbye >_<
> 
> (please love me)

Under Kratos’s direction, breakfast is a quick and efficient thing, and once he is satisfied about the safety of his son’s condition they get ready to move on.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Mimir.”

The Head looks up at the boy as best as he can. “Fire away, little brother!”

“You mentioned the Valkyries not being able to herd the dead into Valhalla anymore.” Atreus says, slowing his walk slightly so that he can look at the other as they talk, “But hadn’t we saved them?”

Mimir sighs wistfully. “Aye lad, but the world isn’t as easy as black and white.” He remarks, “There’s a lot of slack to pick up, and a half-destroyed realm is not going to be fixed in just a few days of work.”

Kratos doesn’t even want to think of what Sparta looked like after he was done with Zeus. Or Poseidon. Or Kronos. He should probably stay away from places in general.

“Still!” Arkaios intercepts, patting Atreus and making him jump. “If you freed the Valkyries, than it’s a matter of time before things get better. The night is always darkest just before the sunrise.”

“It is also a starting point.” Kratos says, after having been silent for most of the walk. To his son’s inquiring gaze, he explains: “We can return to the Council of Eight and look for more clues. See if there is any way we can reinforce Helheim’s defences.”

“Ooh, maybe we can talk to the giant bird?”

There. Hopeful curiosity and endless wonder fit his son much better than fearful obedience and sadness. Atreus never acted out too much, all things considered, and Kratos deeply regrets not being the father he deserves –or at least not making an effort sooner. “Possibly.”

They split up to look around the Council site, and eventually Atreus finds a chest tucked behind one of the thrones. “Father, look!”

Both Kratos and Arkaios come to him. The young Spartan brings a hand to his chin. “Maybe the key is also nearb—” he doesn’t get to finish the thought, as Kratos curls a fist and punches through the thing.

“It looks like another of those map fragments. What does it say, boy?”

Atreus doesn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest. “Let me see…”

It takes them both a little bit of time to notice that Arkaios is still staring at what’s left of the chest.

“What is it?” Kratos eventually asks, and the younger warrior just …looks at him.

“Really?” He eventually asks, rolling his eyes when Kratos barely shrugs a shoulder in response, “And you wonder how your enemies track you… they have but to follow the trail of broken pottery, I’m sure.”

At that, Atreus does giggle slightly –it is true.

“You will forgive me if I have little time for _picking locks_ while protecting my son and fighting creatures that want me _dead_.” The way Kratos bristles tells Atreus that father does feel slightly self-conscious about how often he breaks things, sometimes breaking also those he does not mean to. He guesses it's kind of endearing, coming to think of it.

He exchanges a look with Mimir –he has to admit, the head was right: it is indeed painful to watch.  But now he has to concentrate on the clues found. This looks like it was written by a Valkyrie. Possibly Sigrun herself. His eyes skim over the passages until he arrives to the useful part.

“Father!”

“What is it, boy?”

“The Valkyries have ways to keep the dead in check –and to fight those who would try to use the damned for an assault on them!” Atreus can’t help but show the page to his father and point at the passages, forgetting that Kratos can’t read Runic at all. “Here! We need the chisel, but we need to make it more powerful –find something to imbue it with that will keep burning even in Helheim, to be able to destroy the Runes of the Damned.”

Definitely a start. Kratos was about to suggest they go ask the dwarves what could possess such magic, but a quick turn of the head tells him Arkaios seemingly disappeared.

“Hey.” Ah, not disappeared, his mind supplies with relief –only wandered about, similarly to what Atreus does, and found either something shiny or something interesting to him. “This taste like _kṓneion_ to you?”

Oh. Nevermind, it is interesting indeed. Kratos drops on one knee, to further examine Arkaios's finding. If nothing else, the young warrior will feel less vulnerable with his 'secret' weapon back in his possession. Which is good.

“What is that?” Atreus asks, moving to kneel at the man's other side.

“Hemlock, boy.” Kratos answers, taking a leaf from Arkaios’s offering hand and biting into it to confirm the taste, “It is very poisonous.”

“What?! Then why are you eating it?!”

“Do not fret, young one.” Arkaios urges, trying to reassure the boy, “Where we come from, it is common to eat small doses of poison every day since childhood, to make ourselves immune to it.” He snips another leaf off the plant and eats it in front of Atreus to prove it. “See? Your father is in no danger.”

“Ooh. And what are you doing now?” the boy asks, watching Arkaios snip the little branches and gather them into a small pouch.

The Spartan hesitates for a moment, but eventually concludes it’s good that Atreus knows, if only for safety’s sake. “I’ll mash these later, to make a fast-acting poisonous mixture that I spread on my lips every other day.”

“…Why?”

“So that if I’m ever in serious trouble, I can kill any enemy with just a kiss.”

"Whoa! Really?"

Mimir sends quite a meaningful look at Atreus as he intercepts. “Well, any enemy except a Spartan, right?”

“ _Well_.” Arkaios parrots, narrowing his eyes at the Head, “It’s a good thing I’m on friendly terms with the only other Spartan here, right?”

Not particularly amused or comfortable with the direction the discussion is going, Kratos rises to his feet. “We should head out.”

And just like that, the conversation is over.

 

They manage to make it back to the boat with minimal creature interference, and they’re well on the water when Arkaios notices. Being strong enough to punch through closed chests and even stone pillars, one doesn’t notice how much it destroys one’s own flesh.

“Your hands.” It’s sudden enough that it gives Kratos pause in his rowing. What before was barely a scrape on his right hand is now bleeding through the gauntlet. Hm. He must have torn skin. He is still subtly flexing his fingers to gauge how much it actually hurts, when at the edge of his vision he sees Arkaios get out of the bench he was sharing with Atreus and kneel in the middle of the boat. “Let me take care of that.”

There’s not much space to maneuver in a small wooden boat, so it was a smart move to just slide forward to avoid rocking it while still getting close… but the way Arkaios is effortlessly kneeling before him still makes Kratos painfully aware of the power imbalance between them, both physical and personal –one that the younger Spartan walks into willingly.

In the past, he would have taken for granted to have such authority over someone; obedient soldiers are useful and effective. Now? For some reason, it disturbs him. Irrationally, he feels the urge to refuse the treatment. “I can deal with it.”

“I am sure you can.” Is Arkaios’s ready answer, “But that doesn’t mean you should.”

“Should I not?” Kratos looks down at the other’s eyes, question laced heavily with their shared past – _should I not let myself suffer? Would I not deserve to be in constant pain, in repentance for all the terrible things I have done?_

For once, the way Arkaios returns his look is defiant. “Atreus…” he calls, without taking his eyes off Kratos, “Be a dear and take the oar from your father. Hold it for just a few moments.”

Atreus looks at Mimir for a moment. Mimir blinks back at him, seemingly at a loss just like him. Insecure at first, the boy leans forward and closes his hand around the oar; but his father’s grip is slack and allows him to take it without resistance, transfixed by whatever silent conversation he is having with Arkaios.

“Let me phrase this differently.” The young warrior says out loud, “What example are you giving to the boy, if you let minor scrapes worsen enough to fester?” That is a solid point –Kratos’s eyes flick to Atreus briefly, while Arkaios carries on: “And while we’re on the subject, how long before the pain and the soreness in your hands affect your throw? Your strike, your speed? One stiff movement too much and you might not be fast enough.”

 _That_ is an overwhelmingly good argument. Kratos still remembers the time he had to stick his entire arm in a monster’s mouth to prevent it from biting Atreus’s head off. That was reflexes, luck and timing more than anything else. He’d prefer not to have a repeat of anything like it.

There’s a long pause during which Atreus looks back and forth between the two of them. Has someone just taught _his father_ a lesson? Mimir looks like he’s dying to make the exact same comment, but the Head’s refraining from speaking, so Atreus also wisely keeps his mouth shut.

Huffing out a breath, Kratos relents and holds out his hand.

Arkaios takes it in his left, while already digging in his ointment pouch with his right. He starts humming again, but this time, a few words make it through, barely above a whisper.

It’s a different song than the one he was humming for Atreus.

Ὅσον ζῇς φαίνου… μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ…” once again, the ointment starts to glow on Arkaios’s fingers, while Kratos seems genuinely flabbergasted at whatever the younger man is softly singing.

Ah, what Atreus wouldn’t give to be able to understand that! But of all the languages his mother taught him… this was the one not in her arsenal. His innate disposition for them and context made him realize the few words Arkaios said to him while offering him that foul drink were a cheers of sort, but this… he hasn’t got the first clue.

“Hm… you’ve torn yourself badly enough that I have to scrape off the dead skin.” Arkaios then says, after examining the hand and applying a first layer of ointment. He extracts the dagger from his belt. “This will hurt.”

It’s out of Kratos’s mouth before he can even realize he’s actually joking with someone: “Do I not get a drink to numb the pain?”

It’s worth the cheeky smile the soldier gives him: “You did this to yourself. You don’t _deserve_ a drink.”

Can’t argue with that. And, to be fair, he can more than endure the gentle scrape of Arkaios’s blade on his hand, letting torn and dead skin flake away. It exposes the raw wound, but it also makes room for new and healed skin to grow in its place. The soldier resumes humming and singing.

“Πρὸς ὀλίγον ἐστὶ τὸ ζῆν…” more glowing ointment is applied to Kratos’s knuckles, and he tries to remember when even was the last time someone brushed a thumb over his hand. “…τὸ τέλος ὁ χρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ.”

The ointment stings, but the music somehow coursing through his very skin does make it easier to endure. The gentle fingers caressing his hand back and forth also help. A lot. Arkaios finishes in a whisper and looks up at him. “Just so. Bandages?”

Kratos reaches in his pack with his free hand and retrieves a small roll of gauze for Arkaios to take. "Does—" he hates that his own voice is so hesitant, but it's been a long time since anyone has ever taken care of  _his_ wounds, and an even longer time since he last heard _that_ song, "Does the choice of melody make a difference when you do this?"

 _Now_ Atreus is really curious about the words. Arkaios focuses his gaze on his task, but shrugs one shoulder. "Not really. As long as it is comforting to listen to for the ones I am curing."

"I... see."

The young warrior finishes applying the bandage, and catches himself lingering with his hold even after not really having a reason to cradle Kratos's hand in his own anymore. He lets go fast, then.

"Um. Yes, there you go." He says, taking his place back by Atreus's side and letting the boy hand the oar back to his father, "You'll be back punching through stone walls in no time."

"Hrrm."

Yeah, the moment is broken. But Atreus saw it –father was touched by something Arkaios said or did. Whether it was the song itself, or the man's surprising defiance in forcing him to take better care of himself, Kratos has been surprised.

Not many people are able to do that.

Eyeing Mimir as subtly as he can, Atreus gives the slightest of nods and looks up at Arkaios, puppy eyes ramped up to maximum and earnest, childlike wonder in his voice: "What song were you singing, Arkaios? It was beautiful!"

It isn't a lie, technically. The song was indeed beautiful and the boy does want to know... he simply _also_ wishes to know what flustered his father so much that his speech stuttered.

"It is an old ode." The Spartan answers, brushing a light caress over his head, "A man composed it to honor his late wife, some hundred years ago." Oh. Well that is immensely sad. Atreus wonders if Arkaios knows mother is dead, and then he nearly hits himself -they are here, she is not, and not once has Kratos spoken about his mother. Even if he didn't know, Arkaios probably figured it out.

“What do the words mean?”

Arkaios seems genuinely surprised by the boy’s hunger for knowledge, but seems happy enough to indulge him. “A rough translation would be… As you live, shine. Let nothing grieve you at all; for life exists only for a short while, and time will take its toll.”

That is definitely darker than the child was expecting –but at least he now understand why it made father pensive. “That’s… kind of sad... but also nice?”

“That is what happens when you compose songs for the dead.” Arkaios says, almost conspiratorially, hunching slightly towards him: “Would you like me to write it the way it is pronounced to you? I cannot teach you my power, but I can definitely teach you the songs.”

“You would?!”

Kratos himself is silent as he keeps rowing, observing Arkaios happily indulge his boy’s curiosity where he himself had been too closed off in his own grief to try. From the corner of his eye, Atreus catches his father absently rubbing his thumb against the corner of the bandages every now and then. Now that he thinks about it, it’s not that surprising that the contact left an impact on him: the closest person to him is Atreus himself, and even his young mind can understand that a son’s affection is decidedly not the same thing as unguarded, selfless care from someone not tied by family.

The boy looks out to hide the mischief surely showing on his face as he smiles to himself. It is time to try and see whether he can get a decent reaction out of father.

They reach the Temple dock soon enough, and Kratos is the first to stand, being the heaviest. Atreus braces his legs –he doesn't have much in the way of brute strength, but water and its unstable surface are his friends. Father steps onto the dock, and Arkaios rises to his feet as well to get out of the boat. Lightning fast, Atreus pushes up and to the left, grabbing Mimir by one horn and dipping sideways.

It has a very predictable effect on the small boat, rocking it violently and sending the unprepared Arkaios toppling forward. Kratos has fast reflexes, and he promptly turns and holds out both arms to grab the younger man before he falls face-first onto the dock –or worse, into the water.

Which, of course, means that Arkaios has fallen straight into Kratos's chest instead, the man's large arms instinctively wrapped around his thin frame and resting on the small of his back. Absently, Arkaios notes he can hear Kratos's heartbeat under his ear. It's strangely soothing.

"Sorry!" Atreus exclaims as he waits for the boat to steady itself and then jumps onto the dock himself. "I thought Mimir was about to fall in the water!"

"Boy..."

"What? It's true, look!" He blinks up innocently at his father, as Kratos lets Arkaios go and the younger Spartan apparently takes the time to find his footing again –looking at anything But Kratos. "The rope holding him up is getting frayed. See?"

Clever, clever lad. Mimir does his best at looking perfectly innocent too –it's not as if he could do anything, he's just a reanimated head.

"Hm." Wordlessly, Kratos refastens the rope at a lower point and ties together the frayed ends. "This will do for now. Let's carry on."

He is barely two steps in when he notices Arkaios isn't following them yet. "Arkaios."

The younger man is startled by the call, having seemingly been lost in thought the whole time, and looks up sheepishly. "Yes?"

"I said let's carry on." He repeats gruffly, nodding in the direction they're going.

"Oh. Yes. Right."

If he had a neck to support him, Mimir would have shaken his head. Hopeless, absolutely hopeless. Surely even someone as oblivious and distant as Kratos should see the obvious...

To be fair, the man is walking faster and more stiffly for some reason, but whether that is from simple irritation with the slight delay –so easily irritable, this one– or because of something entirely different... well, he is not the one who can find out. He will have to wait until he can get the boy to be alone with his father for that.

It's a wonder Arkaios doesn't yet suspect a thing –but then again, he has clearly developed an instant soft spot for young Atreus, possibly seeing some of himself in this boy faced with a world too harsh, too soon– so maybe he doesn't believe him capable of any real mischief.

It's just as well. Makes for a more entertaining journey, at the very least.

"Well if it ain't our favorite disaster bunch!"

Harsh, Brok. Disaster does seem to follow them, but they don't go around purposefully causing it. ...Most of the time.

Kratos doesn't dignify that with an answer, as usual, and instead extracts the chisel from his pack.  "I need this to be able to burn Runes in Helheim."

"And that's why I like ya, you mad sonuvabitch!" The blue dwarf exclaims with a deep belly laugh, "You come up with the craziest requests!"

"It's not all that impossible." Sindri counters, looking up from where he was cleaning his tools for exactly the fourteenth time, "Imbuing the chisel with a Chaos Flame would do the trick. Possibly."

"Chaos Flame? Now _that_ sounds familiar." Arkaios comments, his gaze dropping to Kratos's forearms before meeting his eyes again –they are narrowed at him in a not at all pleasant way.

So it is still a sore spot, and the man doesn't care for the topic to be treated so lightly. Ouch. He should have kept his mouth shut, and he'll have to keep that in mind.

For now, he clears his throat. "So where do we find one?"

"We've found quite a few of them around!" Atreus remembers clearly the sarcophagi that they discovered time and time again, and how the flames within empowered his father's unusual blades. "We could go look for more? For one able to withstand the cold of Helheim?"

Kratos deliberates for a second. "Yes."

“Tell you what, brother!” Mimir intercepts, “We could ask Jörmungandr! He’s one of the oldest creatures around here; he’s bound to know something that’ll help us.”

"Before you go, my brother 'n I can take a look at yer shit; make sure it's in top shape, if'n you wanna."

"That is kind of you, thank you!" Without a second thought, Arkaios slips off the pauldron and gives it to the dwarf. "Do you think you could do something to my dagger, too?"

"Well, I usually don't much like frillin' up things that ain't me own creation, but my brother here can prob'ly take a look at it."

Sindri steps forward when he hears Brok mention him, and takes a good look at the knife before gingerly picking it up.

"Hm. Rough design, but quite efficient. And clean, all things considered." He comments turning the weapon this and that way. "You wouldn't mind if I made it, uh… a bit _sleeker_ and more elegant, would you?"

"Whatever works." The Spartan shrugs, curious to watch he dwarves work. He is disappointed when Sindri shoos him away:

"Well? Off you pop. Go! We'll call you back when your order is ready."

Out of the corner of his eye, Arkaios sees Kratos and Atreus do the same, as they deposit their weapons on Brok's table. It makes him smile that Kratos's hand lingers on the Frost Axe as he admonishes the dwarf before moving away: "Treat her well."

Truly, it must be a precious memento.

Kratos's pauldron also ends up under the dwarves' hands for maintenance, and Arkaios can't help but notice –all the scars he remembers far too well, and quite a few new ones. He tries to be subtle about it, but the other notices quickly, and inevitably asks: "What?"

Feeling a fond smile blossoming on his face but unable to help it, Arkaios shakes his head slightly in lieu of a 'nothing'. "...you got fuckin' old."

It's a moment of great surprise for Atreus when, instead of snapping angrily at the other or brushing him off entirely, his father grunts with a sound that might or might not have been a chuckle. "Perhaps." He says, looking every bit as imposing as always even without the armor, "I can still kick your hide all the way to Athens."

Arkaios nods absentmindedly. "Of that I have no doubt." He admits, unhooking his canteen from his belt and having himself a nice long sip of ouzo.

Kratos watches him, suddenly aware that indeed, it would be incredibly easy to break the young body before him. Not for any incompetence on Arkaios's part, he is just... too strong. The younger Spartan would get tired eventually, or take one heavy blow too many and pass out. One well-placed punch at the base of his neck. Or a kick between the shoulder-blades, maybe –his back is so slender, it wouldn’t take much more than that to bend it… it makes Kratos wonder where Arkaios did take the strength to pull him up from.

"Drink?" Noticing him staring, the young warrior extends his arm out, startling Kratos out of his musings and making him realize that pondering ways to disable one of his only allies is probably not healthy.

Then again, the man thinks, he of all people should know appearances can be deceiving. He accepts the flask with a grunt, telling himself he was only taking stock of the strengths and weaknesses in the other’s figure to better know how and when to protect him. Yes, that must be it.

" Στην υγειά σας."

Arkaios bites his lower lip as he watches Kratos take a swig and come back with a satisfied sigh; and he’s got a cheeky look about him as he turns to the child. "Atreus. Ouzo?"

While he would have normally jumped at the chance of being treated 'like a man', the boy remembers the taste and maybe the experience is further soured by the pain he was in at the time of his first drink.

"Oh. Oh _no_." He hastily says, shaking his hands in front of him, "Not for me, uh, not now. Maybe next time? Thank you all the same."

Arkaios takes his flask back from Kratos with a chuckle. "Fair enough."

Even father is obviously amused by the turn of events and is clearly trying not to laugh –Atreus wonders briefly if he really is that transparent or if they remember being his age, in a faraway place made of marble, rules and punishments, and only having one another to keep their spirits high.

No wonder soldiers grow so close to each other –if father did for Arkaios an ounce of what he has done for him, Atreus guesses he can sort of see why the man would still happily die for his Commander, former or otherwise. But enough of the grim thoughts: he saw that.

His father was just… _looking_ at Arkaios with this lost expression on his face, like he wasn’t really thinking about anything specific.

In Mimir’s humble opinion he was thinking about _some_ thing alright, but neither of the two observers is prepared for the moment Kratos actually voluntarily initiates physical contact.

For a second, Arkaios seizes up, breath hitching when he feels hands behind him and in his hair. Then he realizes it’s just Kratos, and… no, that makes it worse.

“If you are to lecture _me_ about safety…” the older man begins, clearly referencing his little stunt on the boat, “At least tie your hair back properly, so it won’t be a constant lure for your enemies to grab and pull at.”

The Spartan is completely immobile, shoulders tense as Kratos undoes the rope tying his head in a messy braid, runs his fingers through it to somewhat shake it out, and then gathers it all up in a high ponytail, looping it around itself once so it becomes shorter, and finally tying it back up. His hands linger a few more seconds on the nape of Arkaios’s neck, the tanned skin underneath now warm to the touch, a far and welcome change from the icy frostbitten touch that had him so worried the young man would die.

Brok’s sudden call startles him out of his own thoughts and away from Arkaios. “Yer armor’s ready! You wanna come put it on or what?”

Kratos hums at that, and chucks Mimir in Arkaios’s hands. “Hold him. I will only be a moment.” He says, nodding to his son, “Atreus. Follow me.”

As the two don their freshly up-kept equipment, Atreus thinks back to some of the questions he hasn’t gotten around to ask and decides it’s a good enough moment to fire: “Father? Why did Váli call Arkaios a whore?”

To his credit, Kratos doesn’t hesitate in his answer: “Because he has nice hair and fair skin, and people like Váli have to twist any beautiful thing they see into something shameful and destroy it.” He doesn’t even say it as a compliment to Arkaios’s appearance, it’s a cold hard fact –the young Spartan’s hair _is_ nice, despite being messy most of the time, and his skin is indeed smooth and smells good –possibly because of all the plant extracts he carries around. “People everywhere always wish they looked a certain way, but when they see something that actually looks like what they desire they feel inadequate, and have to tarnish it, drag it to their level so that they can then feel superior. A good way to do this is imply sexual inferiority and deny them any worth except their bodies and looks.”

“Like when Modi said that mother had to be, uh… not good, because she chose you?” the purpose of his question almost forgotten, Atreus looks up to his father and sees something half-way between a smile and a grimace.

“Precisely.” He confirms, tightening the fastens on his pauldron, “They were empty words, meant to anger me and distract me in battle. You will learn to tune out your enemy’s rambling with time. Like we did.”

Huh. That means Arkaios has heard this many times before –after all, he barely even reacted to the word, back on the mountain. Idly, Atreus wonders whether all their enemies stopped at words, or if something worse has been done to Arkaios to make him so easy on the surface, but so guarded and reluctant about his own feelings.

In the meantime, Mimir just looks up at Arkaios as best as he can, a knowing smirk on his face. “I saw that, lad.”

“You saw nothing, Head, shut up, or so help me— hey! Done already? My turn?” focused as he was to keep his tone low, the young Spartan nearly missed Kratos coming back to take Mimir. Nearly, not completely –his Commander taught him better than that; and he is all too happy to relinquish the talking Head back to the one person no sane man would want to pester.

Arkaios makes quick work of wearing his armor, and thanks Sindri profusely for the improvements on his knife –it is sharper and more durable, and apparently the concave canal is able to withstand poison, should he desire to imbue his weapon with it to incapacitate enemies even with non-lethal blows. It also has a nice black and copper luster on the hilt, now. “So. Where are we going, now?”

There’s an odd knowing look in Kratos’s face as he answers: “We are going to look for the World Serpent.”

The young warrior stops in his tracks and blinks. and blinks. And blinks again. “I’m sorry, the World _What_?”

“The World Serpent!” Atreus supplies happily, “He is a friendly Giant!”

“So not just a serpent… but a giant one.” Arkaios takes a deep breath. He has, since childhood, bean deathly afraid of serpents. Kratos is concentrating a lot on _not_ looking at him, and the young Spartan _knows_ the other remembers. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Nonsense.” The man denies, pretty successful at letting slip only minimal amounts of amusement, “Let us make haste. We have a God after our hides. Again.”

Arkaios should probably be more cross at Kratos for enjoying seeing him squirm, but can’t quite bring himself to –it is just so good to hear the man jest, if even at his expense.

Mimir is right –he is utterly hopeless.

One hope he _does_ hold onto is not to be eaten by this supposed friendly Giant Serpent.

He should have known insane things would happen, fighting by Kratos’s side again: some things never really change –but to be fair, he wouldn’t have it any other way, and even Atreus’s little giggle as the boy catches onto his fear is worth it.

Gods above, what is he getting himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things: [here](https://youtu.be/pNLEFz9wwz8?t=58s) is the song Arkaios is singing to Kratos as he bandages his hands. Though is obviously sang softer and slower. There are a lot of nice version, but none of them with a male voice.  
> (whereas I was just listening to Enya's [Boadicea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKQwgpaLR6o) while I wrote the scene with Atreus, so that's the song I'm picturing for that).  
> And [this](https://78.media.tumblr.com/dfb44552b9370769d80d2188ebeaee99/tumblr_p8a0ve9ATR1rt658vo1_1280.jpg) is a very fast, very messy and not at all good sketch of what Arkaios would look like in my mind. Y'know, vaguely. As a frame of reference. The ponytail Kratos does for him is more orderly than the one in the sketch, practically a man-bun. Here, have a [Greek hairstyle reference](https://78.media.tumblr.com/3974b8fa3b473c2635da9dba19953a8f/tumblr_oss5j8sJ8C1tfpj0go1_500.jpg) to guess the halfway point. Think second from the top left.
> 
> So. We're finally getting some sass out of Arkaios. Not that Kratos is complaining -when the people around you default between hate and fear, sass is a welcome change, I'm sure.  
> And we're gonna see what happened to our big snake BOI next! I'm so excited.  
> Poor Arkaios, he's gonna be so terrified. <3
> 
> ***Ὅσον ζῇς φαίνου… μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ… Πρὸς ὀλίγον ἐστὶ τὸ ζῆν… τὸ τέλος ὁ χρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ.” in case it wasn't clear these are the verses Arkaios sings to Kratos, and he himself gives a translation to Atreus: "As you live, shine. Let nothing grieve you at all; for life exists only for a short while, and time will take its toll.”
> 
> ****and when Kratos and Arkaios pass each other ouzo there's that "Stin ygeià sas" again, just "cheers".


	5. Unafraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is getting old very fast.”
> 
> “Then maybe you should think twice before exerting yourself to the point of passing out.”
> 
> “And when did _you_ become a reasonable person?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so. One thing y’all have to know about me is that I barely plan what happens, stuff pours out of my fingers and then shit, it’s too tangled with the events to flippin’ change it.  
> Like, I write and write and write and after a while it doesn't matter how much I want to edit, the thing has decided for itself.  
> It's a curse, really.

Coming to think of it, they haven’t seen Jörmungandr poke his head out ever since the fight with Baldur –it’s been _weeks_ , and Atreus remembers Baldur somehow injuring the Serpent. Suddenly, he is worried.

The bridge is much the same as always, but it feels like something is missing while they can’t see the Serpent’s massive snout looming over them. There’s a beat of silence after Kratos lets Mimir blow the horn that has Atreus nearly panicking, but then the familiar rumble of the very ground beneath them brings comfort to the boy.

…Surely there’s something to be said about _that_ being comforting for Atreus, but it is not the time or place.

Arkaios, already rooted to the spot by the realization that those scaly things in the distance did indeed belong to an actual, _living_ creature, is petrified when Jörmungandr finally turns to look at them.

This is it. This is how he dies. Eaten by a giant snake for no other reason other than looking at it wrong. He’s enough out of it that he doesn’t notice his own hands grabbing hold of Kratos’s forearm in his panicked frenzy. The enormous, fang-filled mouth moves closer and a sound more thunderous than any storm he’s ever been in echoes through the air, and Arkaios forgets  appearances and just squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head to the side so he at least doesn’t have to see how the creature will eat him.

“Yoooooooooooooooooor-mo hin Meeeeeeemeeeeeeer”

It’s weird enough that it startles Arkaios out of his terror-induced stillness, making him jump.

“Easy.” Kratos whispers, “It is simply how they talk.”

‘Talk’ being, of course, a relative term. Mimir appears to be making weird vocalizations at the massive beast, which seems to respond with long and powerful sounds that resemble a mixture between growling and belching. It still makes Arkaios’s blood run cold just to look at it.

“He wishes to help.” Mimir eventually says, “But he also needs to ask for your help.”

“Aww! Anything!” Atreus is way too calm and cheerful for Arkaios’s tastes. How is the boy not concerned about the giant snake with _two sets of teeth_ in its mouth? Talk about friends in high places. “Right, father?”

“The Serpent has been helpful and true to his word to us.” Kratos simply says, nodding for Mimir to relay the message, “If we can help him in return, we will.”

More of that strange ‘conversation’ goes on, and eventually Jörmungandr lies his head on its side, close enough to the edge of the bridge that they could touch his nose, if they so tried. Mimir calls to their attention: “He was injured in his fight with Baldur, and Freya will not heal him.”

Arkaios is still trying to piece together what could be so strong to even make a _dent_ in this creature’s scales –and add that up with the fact that Kratos _killed_ said person– while Atreus seems genuinely distressed.

“Oh no! Will he be alright?”

Mimir, for what it’s worth, doesn’t seem _too_ terribly worried. “Well, the gash needs treating, and Jörmungandr hasn’t got any thumbs.”

Three pairs of eyes fall on Arkaios in silence.

“Oh no.” is the first thought coming to his mind as it dawns on him, and he takes a step backwards. “Oh _no._ surely there must be something _else_ we can do—”

“Please, Arkaios!” Atreus asks, taking both the other’s hands in his own, “Jörmungandr is a friend. We’ve already been in his belly and he didn’t eat us! It will be alright, I promise!” the Spartan doesn’t know what part of the tale about being _inside_ the beast’s mouth is supposed to be reassuring, but those big, earnest eyes fix on him, hopeful and pleading. “Please?”

Really, how _does_ Kratos ever say no to this face? He will probably regret this, but nods with closed eyes and a sigh. “For you, child. I’ll see what I can do.”

Mimir wastes no time in relaying the assent to the Serpent, and the creature seems to relax some more in its position. Atreus is, predictably, the first one to run to the edge. He pats the tip of Jörmungandr’s snout affectionately, and happily steps on the side of his massive head.

“Come on!”

“Oh dear.” Arkaios whispers to himself, barely able to walk forward slowly.

Not so amused anymore, Kratos falls into step with him and once again gently pushes a hand against his back. “You have nothing to fear. I will go first, and show you it is safe.”

His eyes close once more as he takes a few deep breaths and lets Kratos steer him forward. He can do this. He _can_ do this. For Atreus, for their quest, and for Kratos himself. When he opens his eyes again, he’s right in front of the beast fanged mouth.

Kratos has jumped on top of it, and is holding out a hand to him. “Come. I will catch you.”

However flattering it is to be on the receiving end of such care, something in the reassurance makes Arkaios bristle slightly with the urge to prove he _doesn’t need_ to be safeguarded like that, so he does his best to swallow down his fear, and does jump –if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s jumping. He makes a clean, light-footed landing, and doesn’t even need to take Kratos’s arm for it. “Unnecessary, but thank you.”

Atreus watches the exchange and can’t help but smile secretively at Mimir: Kratos seems taken aback by the younger Spartan’s quick adaptability. _Is that look on your face surprise, father?_ He doesn’t ask, much as it kills him to stay silent, _Or were you hoping for another excuse to have him in your arms?_

Arkaios tries not to get too cocky about exceeding expectations, as it takes most of his focus not to panic at the very thought he is _walking on a giant snake, Gods,_ but all his worries are eased by young Atreus taking his hand once more.

“It’s here, just below the neck! Look!” he says, pointing to a gash the Serpent has dutifully exposed so that it’s horizontal and easy to reach, “Can you heal it?”

That is a question and a half. Sure, considering the Serpent’s size the wound is probably not _too_ life threatening, but it’s still a slice as long as Atreus is tall, and the edges are curled away from each other by the pull of scales and the freshwater doing absolutely sweet fuck all in terms of cauterizing it.

Just as Arkaios is pondering exactly how to go about this, Jörmungandr heaves a breath that has a strange rumble to it, almost like a whine, and the Spartan feels a pang of sympathy for the creature.

He rolls up his sleeves and starts digging in his pouch. “Kratos?” he calls, “Go on the other side of the gash. After I’m done with the anointing, you will have to help me push the edges closed.” Hopefully the scales fitting back together will hold while the flesh underneath takes the time to mend.

Scooping almost the entirety of his root extract on his hands, Arkaios starts singing.

“Θάλασσα, θάλασσατους

θαλασσινούςθαλασσάκιμου

μητουςθαλασσοδέρνεις

θαλασσάκιμουκαιφέρε

το πουλάκι μου…”

He is singing at a much higher volume than the whispered tones he used for them, Atreus notices. Which might be because, with Jörmungandr being as big as he is, he wouldn’t pickup on small, soft sounds, and as such the soothing song would have no effect on him.

 Arkaios has spread the extract on his hands and part of his forearms as well; and is now doing his best to spread the glowing mixture along the inside edge of the gash.

 “Θάλασσακιαλμυρόνερό

να σε ξεχάσω δεν μπορώ.

Νασεξεχάσωδενμπορώ

θάλασσα κι αλμυρό νερό…”

  
With a deep breath, the Spartan reaches slightly inside the wound and lets some of Jörmungandr’s blood run on his hands, mixing it with his ointment, since it otherwise wouldn’t be nearly enough to cover the entire area. He keeps singing and it seems to do the trick, since even diluted with copious amounts of snake blood, the mixture retains its glow.

“Ροδόσταμο, ροδόσταμοναγίνεσαι

θαλασσάκιμου

τηπλωρητουςναραίνεις

θαλασσώνουμεγιασένα

ξημερώνουμαι…”

Atreus cannot be too sure, because in the middle of all this he is genuinely worried for the Serpent’s health, but he thinks he sees his father’s lips unconsciously mouthing along to the song –he knows it. Enough to know the words by heart. Atreus watches carefully, trying to read his father’s lips… he has very little elements to work with, what little Arkaios wrote for him, what he’s hearing right now and his own talent… but it’s enough to perceive that it’s a song about the sea. Once Arkaios deems the wound sufficiently covered, he nods to Kratos and together they push the edges of the gash to pinch it closed.

Jörmungandr gives another whine, but doesn’t move. Arkaios raises his voice a little more, as he sings the last few words, and lets the rest of the song dissolve gradually into humming.

“Θάλασσακιαλμυρόνερό

να σε ξεχάσω δεν μπορώ.

Νασεξεχάσωδενμπορώ

θάλασσα κι αλμυρό νερό…”

It’s imperative that they keep the scales touching and fitted over each other, since they won’t have anything big enough to bandage this, so both men hold together for a little more, and Kratos goes as far as placing his hand on top of Arkaios’s one, as the younger Spartan keeps singing the tune a while longer, even though it looks like the whole exercise has drained him.

Eventually, his voice gives out and Arkaios is tired enough that he isn’t afraid to briefly rest his forehead against the Serpent’s scales. “It worked.” He sounds just as breathlessly surprised as the other three present.

Atreus lets out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. Their friend will be fine. He would tackle-hug Arkaios if it didn’t seem like the tiniest jostle would fling the man into the water, at the moment. The Spartan gestures for Mimir’s attention:

“Tell him… tell him not to make any sudden movements. And to avoid getting into fights with deities and the like for at least a few days.” He tries to stand, but his knees give out under him and he sits back down.

Mimir relaying messages to the Serpent in their strange language will never not be amusing. Even Arkaios smiles slightly, while Kratos circles back, careful to avoid the area they just pinched closed, and offers a hand to Arkaios. “I’m fine.” He tries to say, dismissing the gesture and taking a few more breaths, “I just need a second.”

“Arkaios.” Ouch –there it is again, the tone that really doesn’t leave room for arguing, “I know you’re strong. But I can also see the spell on such a large magnitude drained your energies.” After all, when the ingredients are barely a crumb, compared to the surface area to treat, the magic has to take the power from _some_ where, right? “I won’t think any less of you just because you might need help. Take my damn hand.”

Oh this is cute. Atreus slaps both hands on his own mouth before the traitorous thought can leave it and ruin the moment, as father helps Arkaios up and slings the other’s arm around his own shoulders, to hold him by one side. “Oh I’m so glad!” he says instead, _now_ moving to gently hug Arkaios at the waist, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Arkaios’s hand caressing the back of his head is very welcome –it feels warm and gentle, and cements into Atreus the thought of wanting Arkaios to stay, even after this is over. “Not a problem, young one.” The man says, smiling softly down at him, “For you, anything.”

_Really father, you have to open your eyeholes and see that this person should stay with us forever and ever._

In the meantime, Mimir has finished his conversation with the Serpent and clears his throat to catch Kratos’s attention.

“The type of Flame you seek only burns in Muspelheim.” He explains, relaying the Serpent’s message, “You will need something sturdy to contain and transport it. And the bird in Helheim will be wary of us when we enter its realm with it.” Well, _that_ ’s comforting and not at all scary. “But if your heart does not belong to the Damned, he will leave you be.”

Well, shit. For a long time, Kratos thought that’s exactly where he belonged. Then again, his heart has belonged to Faye until her last breath and then some, and now it belongs with his son –the one person he’d willingly die for in this entire damned rock.

Maybe he is safe after all.

“Ah, and Arkaios, lad!” Mimir also calls, making the tired Spartan look up slightly: “Jörmungandr is thankful for your care. He considers you a friend, and promises not to eat you. You are too scrawny for his tastes anyway.”

It’s not an instant-cure to his deep rooted fear, but it is enough to make Arkaios laugh. “Sure. Just… let’s not do that again anytime soon, ok?” With that, Arkaios’s head slumps slightly to the side –he may or may not have lost consciousness.

 

He opens his eyes back in the workshop, to the sound of Brok and Sindri bickering even as they work. “This is getting old very fast.”

“Then maybe you should think twice before exerting yourself to the point of passing out.”

Kratos’s tone is reprimanding, but someone who has known the man as long as Arkaios has, he can hear the mixture of amusement and concern underneath. “And when did _you_ become a reasonable person?”

“Having a child to care for does all sort of things to your mind.” Kratos counters without missing a beat as he crosses his arms, “Like developing _common sense_. Shocking, I know.”

The dwarves are too absorbed in their work, but Mimir gives his not so humble opinion: “I don’t know, brother, it’s still a tall order to talk about you and common sense in the same sentence, considering some of the feats I’ve been witness to.”

Kratos grunts. “At least I know my limits.”

Arkaios lowers his gaze. However rude and uncalled for, the older man is right. He’ll be of no use to them if he works himself into unconsciousness, and he promised to help. “It won’t happen again.”

“Hrrm.”

Not for the first time, Mimir wonders how such interactions can be enough for the poor love-struck fool to keep going as he is. Sure, the fact that Kratos even bothered to admonish him means he cares enough to prefer him alive; but from there to expressing affection it’s quite the leap –and the lad could do with some _actual_ care. Hopefully his and Atreus’s joined efforts will be enough to get this daft lump of rage to realize what they both are missing out on. Eventually, Kratos speaks again: “The dwarves are designing a container that will hold the Chaos Flame for us. We need to provide them with a prime material they are missing. The boy and I know of its location, we’ve been there before. You could stay here, rest.”

Arkaios’s eyes set aflame with a strange mixture of anger and something else entirely. He props himself up from his sitting position, enough to come almost nose to nose with the knelt Kratos. “Do not insult me.” He whispers, “I may not be a God, but I’m made of sturdy stuff all the same. I will _not_ stay behind, and I will _not_ be a burden.”

Ah, there’s the lad’s line. Used as he is to be much stronger than the average human, Kratos struggles with the concept of equal footing, while Arkaios desperately wants the man to see him for his worth as he is –Kratos offering him to stay behind and rest probably hurts more than the man taking a swing at him, from the lad’s point of view.

A fine mess indeed.

Atreus clears his voice loudly. “So! You’re all better, Arkaios? That is great!” he exclaims, running up to his father’s side, “We’re going to an old dwarven workshop. Except the dwarf who owned it now is a dragon! How amazing is that?”

“More giant reptiles. Of course.” It’s almost enough to convince him to lie back down, but Atreus’s energy is almost contagious.

“Oh no no, Fafnir is not in his shop anymore! He was imprisoned by the Aesir, but we freed him and he flew away!” And there the boy goes, throwing himself in a detailed recounting of their adventure.

Arkaios watches him talk and gesticulate, getting more and more into it, with only a fond smile and a soft gaze. Soon enough Kratos realizes that if he doesn’t stop his son, nobody else will –but even he is reluctant to do so, since, well… Atreus has so precious few people to talk to. He himself hadn’t been listening for the longest time. Yet they have work to do.

“Boy.” He eventually calls, “Let us move.”

Atreus snaps at attention. “Yes, father.”

Before they can go, Arkaios tugs lightly on the boy’s collar: “You can continue the story on the road.” He assures with a wink.

“Of course! And will you teach me the song? That word you were saying over and over… Thalassaki, is it? Does that mean sea?”

The way Atreus beams at the Spartan while they talk is an excellent argument against any reservations Kratos might have had with letting Arkaios back up so soon –the younger man has kept a sort of enthusiasm he simply does not possess, and it is good for Atreus to be near someone less emotionally challenged than he admittedly is.

One blue rune door later and they’re walking up to Fafnir’s Storeroom, Arkaios listening intently to the tale of how Kratos and Atreus defeated a dragon with a giant crane and a piece of stalactite.

They’re well on the way to the dwarf’s forgotten storeroom when they hear someone screaming.

“It came from the direction of the ravine!” Mimir offers, at the same time Atreus draws his bow:

“We should go help.”

Kratos doesn’t have to look to know that Arkaios’s hand is already on the hilt of his dagger. This doesn’t concern them and they’re losing time, but he is outnumbered –they _will_ go help, with or without him. Might as well.

They go almost down to the shore, and see a lady barely holding onto the edge of a cliff, with an ogre menacingly circling the space below, waiting eagerly for her to fall and a troll scraping the rock walls this and that way. Atreus is the fastest of them in running up to the woman and grabbing a hold of her. She is quite elderly, and Kratos leaps forward as well to haul her up and to safety –against all common sense, the woman struggles.

“No, please— my baby! Save my granddaughter!”

Ah, that’s the reason. The idea of a child still in danger is enough to make even Kratos commit fully to the rescue. “Where is she?”

“She fell down when the landslide happened!” the woman replies, in tears, “Poor baby, she had just offered to carry the bags, and… my fault, it’s all my fault.”

“It will be fine.” Atreus says, squeezing the lady’s hand, “We will go rescue her!”

“I think I can see where she’s hiding!” Arkaios points to an area where rocks fell over each other leaving a very small groove, big enough maybe for a young child to hide into, but definitely not for ogres and trolls to reach into.

Kratos nods. “We have to get her out, that looks unstable.”

“On it!” the smallest among all of them, Atreus takes a running start and jumps, even walking over the ogre’s head for a brief second, then leaping down and landing with a barrel roll.

Kratos and Arkaios jump in after him, the elder one landing right on the ogre and embedding his Axe in the beast’s maw, while Arkaios distracts the troll by swiping at its legs with his dagger and dodging this and that way when the creature tries to catch him.

Hidden between the collapsed rocks, there’s a girl possibly the same age as Atreus. She is covered in dust, hugging a backpack full of junk and scared out of her wits.

“Hi!” Atreus whispers, extending his arm towards her, “My name is Atreus, what is yours?” no answer, except the strident noise of stone against stone. No time for subtleties, then. “You have to come with me; it’s not safe in here!”

She just vigorously shakes her head, unwilling to follow a stranger anywhere –which, while Atreus would have approved in any other situation and probably thought the same, is kind of a problem right now. The rock formation gives an ominous creak.

“Please!” the boy tries again, “This place is about to collapse, and I promised your grandmother I’d save you!”

That seems to do it. Shutting her eyes, the girl grabs Atreus’s offered arm and lets him help her out of the precarious hiding spot.

Immediately they’re met with the image of Kratos ‘riding’ the ogre and trying to make it hit the troll, while the troll itself is still focused on chasing Arkaios around –but the ogre gets soon enough tired of the annoying man on its head, and lashes out at Kratos, forcing him to dismount and recall his axe.

Arkaios is fast in going to support him, throwing his dagger and hitting the creature square in the eye. “Remind me to ask the dwarves to give my dagger the same enchantment!” he calls to the older man, now finding himself unarmed unless he climbs the blasted thing.

In the meantime the troll, having lost its primary target, zeroes in on the two children fresh out of hiding and goes to try and smash a hand over them. Atreus grabs the girl by her shoulders and leaps to the side, then placing himself in front of her and taking aim. “ƥruma!” one puny arrow wouldn’t be enough to stop a troll in its tracks, but a _shock_ arrow, now that’s a little bit stronger. Still, the troll shakes it off fairly quickly, and already it is charging towards them again.

Kratos offers his body for Arkaios to leap off of again, to allow the younger man to jump on the ogre and reclaim his dagger –Arkaios extracts it and stabs the beast in the neck, making it keel over just enough to give the other room for a powerful Frost Axe strike.

With a few more for good measure, until the ogre’s jaw is open wider than nature ever intended and its tongue is lolled lifelessly to the side. Only the troll remains now, and Arkaios is faster than Kratos is in putting himself between the creature and Atreus: he stabs the descending hand with his dagger and the troll howls in pain, but it smacks Arkaios with his other hand, flinging him to the side just as Kratos himself reaches them and signals to his son. “Boy!”

“Ready and waiting!” on his father’s signal, Atreus leaps once on Kratos’s knee and then over his shoulder, firing three arrows in rapid succession, the last one landing right in the troll’s jugular and coming to the cry of “ _Galti atr_ _á_ _s_!” as a stampede of lightning-made boars incapacitates the troll long enough for Kratos to take the Leviathan Axe and ram it into the beast’s chest. It sputters and struggles, with such force that causes Kratos to lose his grip on the Axe still embedded in the troll’s chest, and the finishing blow comes, funnily enough, from Arkaios: jumping up and grabbing at Kratos’s shoulders to use as a pivot, the young Spartan takes the leap and momentum to swing himself in a half circle and violently kick both feet into the axe’s handle, pushing it further in the troll’s body and finally piercing the heart badly enough to drop it dead.

“There is something to be said about you two using me as a ladder.” Figures, that the one moment Kratos can actually make a joke is when he’s covered in blood up to his elbows. Arkaios shakes his head as he retrieves his dagger from the dead troll’s hand, glad they’re all unscathed, for once. Or, well, mostly unscathed. He feels some soreness in his chest, but being hit at full-force by a troll will do that to you.

“ _Yes_ , you are tall and we are short. It’s all very amusing.” He says, trying to make it clear that it is not, but betraying a smile himself, “End of the story.”

In the meantime, Atreus has the sense to turn to the young girl. “Are you alright?” he asks, holding out a hand for her to stand up.

She seems afraid, and at a loss for words, staring at the boy like she hasn’t quite yet grasped what was going on. “I… is it over?”

Atreus does his best to smile reassuringly at her, as he can guess she would probably be terrified of the strangers who just took down the huge monsters and are now covered in blood. “It is. We’re getting you back to your grandmother. She is safe and waiting for you.”

Once reunited, the two predictably hug each other dearly, and the elderly woman thanks them in a flood of tears. “Thank you so much for saving her! We come from a village just south of the forest; I look for metal ore and other trinkets to sell them in the market… I didn’t think there would be beasts this far out.” The lady explains, gesturing to the bag of things her granddaughter was defending. “Anything that was salvaged today… take it, it’s yours. No compensation will ever be enough for my granddaughter’s precious life.”

As the lady hugs the child one more time, kissing her forehead over and over, Kratos and Arkaios share a look. Mimir knows that kind of look –Arkaios is silently urging Kratos not to be an asshole, and Kratos is miffed that the younger would even doubt him on this.

Atreus is inordinately proud of his father when all he takes is a couple of rags to clean the blood off his person and make him do the same. “Well.” He smiles at old lady and little girl alike. “We were happy to help you, but now we have to be on our way.” He turns to go, but feels a tug at his sleeve and turns back.

The girl has disentangled herself from her grandma’s embrace and stepped towards him. “Will I ever see you again?”

Atreus is honestly taken aback by the question, blinking confusedly for a moment, while Arkaios has to hide his face behind Kratos’s shoulder not to show his reaction to how cute the whole scene is.

Eventually, the boy settles for honesty, still smiling radiantly at her. “It may sound strange to you, but hopefully not!” he confesses, “That would mean you’re in dangerous places again. And you should be safe!”

She seems to ponder the answer for a few moments, before looking up at Atreus. “Then… you be safe, too.”

It happens quick enough that one might have missed it blinking, but the little girl shyly leaves a kiss on Atreus’s scarred cheek. He is, for lack of a better word, rooted to the spot. Ha had never been kissed by a girl before, so it’s understandable.

His father’s voice shakes him out of the surprise.

“Boy. Let us move.”

The boy hastily follows after a hurried goodbye to the two travellers, and catches up to them soon enough to hear Arkaios whisper “That was adorable. Say it.”

But Kratos says nothing, and Mimir prefers greeting Atreus instead: “Ah, there you are lad. How does it feel to be someone’s hero, for a change?”

“I don’t know…” the boy muses, not really feeling much different, except for having received his very first kiss. Which is kind of neat. “We did something good, right? We helped them.”

“Aye, that we did, lad.” Mimir says, as they approach the storeroom and the mess of rare metals it contains.

The battle as a whole wasn’t that different from the usual, but Atreus is still thinking about the whole encounter enough to walk up to Kratos as they look around. “Father? I have a question.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“Am I handsome?”

Out of all the possible questions in the Nine Realms, it has to be the one Kratos has absolutely no idea how to answer. Taking the safe route, he answers: “The travelling girl you rescued seemed to think so. Why?”

The boy seems actually embarrassed to talk about it, but curious to know all the same. “I don’t know. I guess… I never really thought about it before.” It’s not about that one particular girl, it’s just… he has so little chance of meeting anyone his age; of having the usual interactions a young boy would normally have… Arkaios feels for him and, seeing Kratos’s clear discomfort in approaching a topic he does not know how to handle, he steps in –this man, really, he can teach his son about Gods, mortality and existence, but not one word about youthful development?

Then again, it probably has been a while for him. “You see, Atreus, being ‘handsome’ is a relative thing. People see beauty in different things.” He explains, perfectly aware that it is not an answer in and of itself. He kneels in front of the boy and pushes a finger on his forehead. “That being said, I think you were quite dashing, just now. And you will grow up to be even more handsome.”

Mimir has to bite his tongue to avoid mentioning that of course Arkaios would say that, the boy takes after his father a lot. But the Spartan’s answer seems to be the validation Atreus needed and the boy nods at him once, breaking into a smile, before carrying on in his search for the steel they need. Making eye-contact with the Head by chance, Atreus notices Mimir shaking in place, like he’s trying to point at something with his own, er, head; and eventually connects the dots. It’s a perfect opportunity, lined up like an easy shot.

“What about father? Is _he_ handsome?” he asks, still ramping up the childlike innocence but making the jump from sincere uncertainty to carefully crafted mischief in record time. There’s a certain pause in Arkaios’s movements that tells the boy the question hit its mark spot-on.

Having a lot of experience in shielding his feelings with feisty banter, Arkaios shrugs: “Who knows? I’ll get a good look and tell you, _if_ I ever see him crack a smile.”

Feeling the barb, Kratos objects: “Stop wasting time. There isn’t much to smile about, in this place.”

“Sure there is! You have a wonderful son that loves you, a… friend of strange and mystical origin, and…” _me_ , he doesn’t say, “…and look! Another coffin for you to punch through to your heart’s content.”

Atreus is struggling to hide his giggles at this point, while Kratos gives Arkaios a very pointedly unimpressed look, as he hooks his fingers on the sarcophagus’s stone slab and slides it open instead. Used to disturbing the dead, he reaches inside and takes the hardened Svartalfheim steel they were looking for and steps away. Arkaios stares at the tattered remains inside for a second longer.

“Well, looks like we both got the cold shoulder, friend.” He mutters, bowing slightly, “Sorry for the desecrating.” He stands up again, grunting with the effort –that troll really hit hard. He’ll probably take the chance to take off the armor once they’re back in the workshop to stretch a little. In the meantime, he walks all the way back to the blue door with his arms crossed under his sternum and hopes no one noticed. “We surely do a lot of back and forth for these dwarves, huh?”

“Tell me about it.” The irritation is so evident in Kratos’s voice that it’s almost comical. “Let us hope it is worth the trouble.”

It most probably will; and Kratos can privately recognize he’s being irritable for no reason –though really, this time it’s his own foolish fault: he should have known better than to actually follow that particular conversation, and there is no rational reason why he should be disappointed that the beautiful young man hasn’t called _him_ handsome.

No rational reason at all. Age must be catching up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song for the World Serpent is called [Thalassaki Mou](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqrU7nm26sc) (my little sea); idk, I just thought it fit. And yes, Atreus is slowly learning Greek too. It’s said in his Wiki page he could kinda guess some letters on the flask when he and Kratos have a drink together, entire songs will make him learn so much faster. Precious boi of infinite talent.  
> Don’t even get me started on the rescue mission lol. I’m incredibly rusty with fantasy action, monsters and shit, I just had this image of little Atreus being all badass in the eyes of a little girl –it pulls the point of view a bit out and on the fact that yes, he’s a remarkably strong thirteen years old, he just doesn’t seem like it because the metre for comparison is motherfucking Kratos. Idk, I just wanted to give sweet Trey-Trey a little bit of screen time. Also I just had the “Am I handsome” bit written out and I had to have a reason for which Atreus could ponder whether he is handsome or not.  
> And I guess it felt kinda strange to me that they’d be the ONLY freaking people in ALL of Midgard. Like, in the game, aside from the bandits who turn into Helwalkers, you literally don’t meet any other humans. My guess (headcanon?) it’s simply that the part of Midgard we see is a harsher, more dangerous region than most, and not many people venture this far out. And the two travellers just got a little lost on their little scavenging mission. Idk, just take this. Can you tell I'm very insecure about this?  
> Ugh. It’s past midnight and I have work tomorrow. Wish me luck! >__<
> 
> Almost forgot!  
> This is google-translated, so I'm not even 50% sure it's correct, but roughly the song should be:  
> Sea, oh sea,  
> the sea-faring ones ,  
> my little sea  
> Do not be turbulent for them. 
> 
> We become sea-bound;  
> for you, we stay awake.  
> Sea and salt water,  
> I am unable to forget you. 
> 
> Rose water, rose water  
> will you become, oh! alas, alas,  
> we become sea-bound for you,  
> my little sea, to bring my little bird to me.
> 
> We become sea-bound;  
> for you, we stay awake.  
> Sea and salt water,  
> I am unable to forget you.


	6. Painful and tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus silently searches for Mimir’s eyes and the expression he receives is very much telling.
> 
>  
> 
> _These two are acting like complete idiots._

Once they’re at the workshop, Atreus enthusiastically goes to talk to Sindri in an explosion of “Sindri! Guess what! I saved a girl today! And she thought I was handsome! Well she didn’t say it but she kissed me on the cheek! That means I’m handsome, right?” and the dwarf is, predictably, horrified at the very thought of having somebody else’s _mouth_ anywhere near him. Brok, instead, laughs good-naturedly at the boy’s antics and shakes his head. Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices Arkaios fiddling with the straps of his chest piece and fixes a look on him:

“You growing breasts under there, or have ya gone ‘n broken my masterpiece already?”

“If it was already broken, it wouldn’t be a masterpiece, now would it?” the Spartan jokes, even as he uncurls his arms, hoping to escape further inspection. The problem is, as he stands up straighter, he winces slightly –and Kratos doesn’t miss it, he’s internally schooled to notice everyone’s weak points and damage all the time.

“Arkaios.”

The warning always made him sober up and stand at the ready in the past, it’s a difficult instinct to fight against. “I said I will not be a burden.”

“And you are not.” Kratos says, holding out both hands, “Unless you do something foolish, like maybe hiding an injury.”

After all, that would not only be reckless and idiotic, but hypocritical as well, considering what he said to Kratos back on the boat.

“It’s really not so bad—”

“Arkaios?” the older man steps right into his space and the Spartan instantly shuts up “Off with the armor.”

The way Kratos says it, with a flick of his right hand, is incredibly reminiscent of how _he_ coaxed his more stubborn comrades to reveal injuries they had kept hidden from the garrison healer in order to not appear weak. It makes him concede, and he can’t resist a little jest.

“You could at least get me a drink first.” He says, laughter hidden in his voice, but complies without a second thought. Kratos doesn’t acknowledge the joke, and the metal pauldron goes on the work table first, followed closely by the fur vest and the tunic.

“That’s…” it doesn’t look _bad_ per se, Arkaios wasn’t cut open, but there’s an angry bruise on the right side of his ribcage and, just underneath skin level, a red tinge has been slowly spreading. Not life threatening by a long shot and not too bad in general either –but very painful by the looks of it.

Atreus, who has by now given up on getting any words out of Sindri, notices the silence and looks up, eyes widening. “That looks like it hurt!” he says worriedly, running to his father’s side. “Did it happen when you got hit in my place? I’m so sorry…”

“Do not be.” Arkaios hurries to say, “I’d much rather it be me than you.”

Height-wise, it would have been Atreus’s neck, which would have probably broken, considering the general frailty of necks compared to a torso’s bigger mass –on a normal child. Kratos has seen his son withstand a punch in the chest from Baldur himself without so much as a bruise, he is half God and half Jotun, after all… but to an external eye he still looks like a child, and the instinct to protect him as such is strong. Kratos himself always tries to put his own body between his boy and harm, whenever possible, even as he learns every day to trust Atreus’s strength a bit more.

“But why haven’t you cured yourself?”

That, boy, is an excellent question. The older Spartan would also very much like to know.

“Funny thing about having a magic voice…” Arkaios says with a sigh, “It does not work on yourself. We will have to do this the hard way.”

Kratos motions for the younger man to sit on the floor and kneels before him. Looking closely, there is a wound on his chest; it’s just by chance that the skin wasn’t broken even as the flesh underneath bleeds slightly. “How do I make that stop?”

“You will have to cut the skin with a hot knife, to give the blood someplace to go.” Arkaios explains, not really looking forward to it but recognizing its necessity now that he sees the bruise in the open. “Otherwise it will keep bleeding into my skin and swell up. Once the blood starts coming out, wash it down with hot water and then close the cut with the flat side of a poker.”

“Atreus.” Kratos calls, “Get some water in a metal pot and put it over the fire. Then ask Brok to give you a hot poker.”

“Sir!” the boy acknowledges and runs to the dwarf, that luckily is still within hearing range and has already cleared a spot over the fire and is brandishing said poker for them.

Kratos holds the poker along the blade of his small knife, to make it just as hot. Once the blade is hot enough to have a faint red just on the edge, Kratos uses his free hand to undo Arkaios’s belt and hold it up to the man’s mouth. “This will probably hurt. Bite down.”

The younger Spartan knows all too well that it will, and bite down on the belt he does. He keeps his noises of discomfort to a minimum, as Kratos carefully cuts a thin line along the already slightly swollen skin, and blood starts flowing out –relieving some of the pressure immediately, if the way Arkaios sags a bit in his shoulders with a muffled sigh is any indication.

“Atreus. Water.”

The boy dutifully goes to pour the water from the pot back into the canteen and brings that over as well. Kratos pours the hot water over the line he just cut, helping the excess blood along its way out… it’s burning and uncomfortable, but Arkaios knows it’s for the best: caught it in time and properly treated, is the kind of injury you can laugh at later.

Still, he dreads the moment the hot poker will have to sear his skin back together and he looks into Kratos’s eyes for a moment to steel himself –that is going to be all kinds of painful and they both know it.

“Ready?”

Arkaios nods at the question, and Kratos touches the burning tip of the poker to the cut he just made, keeping it there for one, two, three seconds. There, that should do it. He tosses the poker on the floor and pours some more water, now lukewarm, on the younger man’s skin, to alleviate the burning.

They both let out a long breath, and Arkaios nods at him again to signal he is good enough to stand up. “I… should probably wait a little before I wear my armor again… until my skin doesn’t feel so sore anymore.”

“We have time.” Kratos assures, “We can’t go to Muspelheim until the tempered steel container is done.”

How lucky for them –Brok and Sindri exchange a look. They usually work very fast, but since it’s so important… they might as well take their sweet time in making sure the container is in every bit perfect.

As Kratos turns to go and put back the poker, Mimir sees the look of the bruise on Arkaios’s chest and sighs.

“Why do you do this to yourself, lad?”

The Spartan eyes him warily. “Do what?”

“Subject yourself to pain.”

Arkaios stays silent and casts his eyes down. Which in turn makes Kratos look back at the young warrior –he is suddenly very interested in hearing the answer to that question.

Catching the other’s eye, Arkaios hunches his shoulders, suddenly feeling exposed and not for his half clothed state –both Kratos and himself have gone into battle wearing far less. “I… didn’t want Atreus to get hurt.”

“I was well on my way to you.” Kratos then says, “I could have protected you both.”

“I don’t want you to have to shoulder that task alone.” The speed and conviction with which the response comes makes Kratos’s breath leave his throat. There this man is, in an arena where Gods and monsters fight, diving in because of the selfless belief that no one should fight alone.

He brings up a hand, resting it gently on Arkaios’s face. “You… already do more than your fair share of good as a man.”

Arkaios is trying very hard not to lean too much into that touch. He closes his eyes briefly, before opening them again and searching for the other’s gaze. “Maybe I want to be more than that.”

“Don’t…” Kratos says, halfway between an order and a plea, “If you try and compare yourself to me… neither of us comes out well from such an exercise.”

Arkaios actually laughs softly at that, enjoying the feeling of the thumb brushing just shy of his lips maybe a little too much. This close, Kratos notices that Arkaios’s lips are ever so slightly cut, a faint, barely-there bruise on the man’s chin also. He doesn’t ask himself why he was looking at the man’s mouth so intently. “Part your lips.”

“Aren’t you quite forward, today?” it’s out of Arkaios’s mouth before he can remind himself about whom exactly is he being _this_ cheeky at.

Kratos is not distracted. “Arkaios. Let me see that.”

“Fine…”

The older Spartan brushes his thumb as gently as he can along his lower lip, but Arkaios still winces. It is indeed cut –very minor and quite literally negligible, but it’s there. “Is it painful?”

“Not right now.” Arkaios mumbles, lips pliant against Kratos’s fingers. He has to physically fight the urge to catch the man’s thumb between his teeth –which is the moment he realizes what he’s doing and grabs the man’s hand to guide it away from his mouth before he can do something they’ll both surely regret. “I’m, uh… I will be fine. Promise.”

From the corner of the workshop where he was pretending to watch Brok and Sindri work, Atreus shakes a fist in frustration. That was so close! The closest either of them has come so far to actually talk about things they were feeling. He searches Mimir with his eyes for advice, and the head just shares his look, mouthing ‘hopeless’ at the boy and making him laugh despite it all.

 

Arkaios takes the time to clean off the rest of the mixed water and blood off his body and then walks around for a bit, waiting for the moment he can put a bandage around himself without it sticking uncomfortably to the fire-sealed skin. He eventually finds Atreus, who is writing away on his journal, and sits cross-legged by him.

“Hello there.”

The boy jumps slightly as he turns to Arkaios –he really walks _very_ silently. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I will be fine.” He assures with a fond expression, “How about I teach you some more of the song?” he asks, his smile turning playful, “You can teach me some of your runes in return, so I can be able to sing the songs that you like, too."

It seems the right thing to say to lift the boy from whatever was souring his mood –Atreus is ecstatic at the very notion, and soon enough they are engrossed in comparing writing and sounds.

"They seem to get on well." Mimir comments as he hears what Kratos is clearly watching while trying to be subtle about it. "What worries you so, brother?"

In a rare drop of his walls, Kratos unhooks Mimir from his belt and brings him up so they are roughly face to face.

"Atreus, he... doesn't have much in the way of friends." He mutters, very much aware that part of that is his own doing, "He liked and trusted Freya... and now he can't see her anymore because of her hatred towards me." Living a life where most people that get close to you either betray you or end up fearing you, it's hard not to be paranoid, especially in the face of something that seems too good to be true. "I cannot help but ask myself... how long before someone or something takes this away from the boy, too?"

Mimir is pensive. It is a good point, but the situation with Freya was wildly different and more complex. "Have you got any reason to believe the lad would ever betray you?"

"Arkaios? No. Not by a long shot." His reply is steady, immediate and sure, before turning just slightly wistful, "But that is not to say he would just leave the rest of his life behind and stay here forever."

True enough –and normal of any parent, to want to spare their child from suffering. But still... "Such thoughts are a long way from now, brother." The Head says, "Sounds to me like you're trying to bandage your head before it's even broken –and you'd think I know something about that!" Kratos is not very amused by Mimir's humor, but there is wisdom in his words. "The boy adores him, and Arkaios seems quite fond of the child as well."

"They do have curiosity and spirit in common." The Spartan comments, hooking Mimir back onto his hips as he feels the beginnings of a smile tug at his mouth, watching his little boy gesticulate wildly and Arkaios laughing good-naturedly at the bundle of energy that is an academically-engrossed Atreus.

Eventually, the container is complete.

"We even inscribed it with protective runes for you, so nothing, not even Thor's hammer, will be able to break it!" Sindri explains, proudly showing the perfection of the craft and the elegance of the design –which Kratos could not care any less about, but he can sense that some of it was done to subtly drag out the forging progress and give Arkaios some time to rest properly. Grunting in acceptance, he leaves some extra silver on the table for the dwarves –going above and beyond duty deserves compensation after all.

"Do you need help, Arkaios?"

The boy's voice makes him turn towards the two.

"It's just one layer of bandage to avoid upsetting the fresh scar with the scraping of cloth and armor." Arkaios assures, "It doesn't have to be perfect."

"Oh. Will it still be ok to hug you, after?"

"Oh you sweet, sweet child." The man can't help the warmth blossoming in his heart –and with reason, Atreus’s open affections for him are absolutely endearing, "You can _always_ hug me."

Still, it can't be comfortable to bandage his own chest like that, and Kratos joins them in two quick strides, taking the roll from Arkaios’s hands before the younger man can protest.

"I can do that—"

"Are you going to make me have to tie you up?" He whispers in the other's ear, his warning not entirely serious but very decisive all the same, "Because _so_ help me, _I will_."

Stunned for a varied number of reasons, Arkaios looks down at Atreus.

"He would." Is all the boy says, nodding along, "Best to just listen to him." He adds, in an odd, almost sing-song tone.

Not wanting to question it further and really not having much to complain about, if at all, Arkaios opens his palms and holds them out in surrender, letting Kratos make quick work of bandaging him, and in turn leave him to dress himself with one last admonishment: "You always take care of everyone around you. There is no dishonor in letting people care for you in return."

It is both heart-warming and heart-breaking for Arkaios, who wears his tunic and the rest of his armor thinking _if only, Kratos._ If only.

 

The Bifrost opens the path to Muspelheim and the first thing Arkaios notices is the temperature change. It's hot and uncomfortable, but there's enough lava going around that he doesn't regret keeping all his layers. It's just their luck that the creatures in this Realm are particularly vulnerable to the Leviathan Axe and the frost damage it deals out.

Kratos and Arkaios seem to be retracing their steps, and eventually they find themselves in a place resembling an arena, holding the remains of what seems to have been a winged fighter of some sort.

"What happened in this place?"

Kratos doesn't even look at the body as he starts exploring and looking around. "A Valkyrie."

"That was—" yes, he just told you, "And you—" clearly. There's really not much to say, except "Why am I even surprised?"

"In all fairness, we did all that to free them from the corrupted forms they were trapped in!" Mimir helpfully supplies.

" _Them_. As in, _more_ than one Valkyrie."

Arkaios just shakes his head. "Seriously..." Back in Sparta, people would tell all kinds of tales about this or that great heroes, most of them not even real, but Kratos only gets hatred and fear as the _Ghost of Sparta_ for killing the people’s ‘beloved’ Gods. Had anyone known what the Gods actually did to the man wearing his wife and daughter’s ashes on his skin, they probably wouldn’t be so quick to judgment.

It’s just as well –that place cannot hurt them anymore, and they’re in a land where nobody gives a damn about Sparta, if they even know of Kratos’s nature or past.

Eventually, they found the mausoleum hidden within the lava falls and the coffin it concealed inside.

The Chaos Flame burns so hot that they can barely get close to it, but Brok and Sindri's fine craftsmanship comes through and the container captures the raw essence.

"That has to be it! Look how bright it is!" Atreus tries to get a good look at it, awed by all the extraordinary thigs they find, but Kratos dissuades him: “Shield your sight, boy. Looking at bright things in a straight line makes spots in your vision.”

Which in turn would make your aim go to shit, he doesn’t need to say. “Oh.” Atreus mumbles, moving to walk side by side with Arkaios. “Will you really be okay?”

“I will, child, I promise.” The other assures, “It will be uncomfortable for a little while, but it’s nothing to frown at.”

The boy doesn’t seem convinced. “I just… I don’t like that you got hurt because of me.” He looks down as he kicks some rocks in front of him. Arkaios can relate –he too has had to be exposed to the concept of people hurt or dying to protect him way too soon. And some of them were not even successful. It tugs at his heart strings, and he takes both of Atreus’s hands. “Oh, no my sweet boy, no.” He calls, making Atreus look at him: “Listen to me closely. Nothing of what happens to me will _ever_ be your fault. I control my own actions; and if I’m ever hurt while staying by your side, the consequences will be mine alone to face. You do not carry the blame for the choices of others around you.”

Not for the first time, Kratos wonders what redeeming act he might have done in this life, to deserve the return of a friend like Arkaios –he’s been doing alright with Atreus since they reconciled, but the young Spartan is telling the boy some of the much needed things _he_ wouldn’t know how to express anymore.

The way back to the Bifrost is blessedly uneventful –it’s when they’re travelling the realm between realms that something feels wrong. The earth quakes around them, rock formations crumbling and changing. Something or someone is trying to interfere with the doorways. The moment they have to actually dive out of the way of falling rocks is the one Kratos decides they’ve been here long enough and improvises, grabbing his son by the hand and calling Arkaios’s attention with a shout:

“There!”

Instead of waiting for the proper exit doorway to show up, they dive into the closest light portal that appears before them.

Predictably, they’re not in the Temple of Tyr at all when they get out. They end up on a shore, somewhere southwest of the construction –Kratos can see the back of it in the darkening sky.

Arkaios slumps cross-legged on the ground, catching his breath and very discreetly holding a hand on the side of his chest. “That was… entirely too close.”

“Look, father! We’re by the forgotten caverns!” Kratos eases his grip on Atreus’s forearm and pats the boy’s shoulder in assent while pondering what to do next –not knowing what just happened, it’s best if they assume that it was Váli or that whatever it was wants them dead and, more importantly, wants to try to force them to go back to the Temple of Tyr the long way around.

Re-entering the doorway immediately seems inadvisable, but so is just falling for the blatant misdirection.

“Atreus.” He calls eventually, “Scout inside and see if the abandoned structure we passed through the first time still stands.”

The boy jumps to his feet and goes –something in the way Kratos waits for Atreus to be gone before sitting by Arkaios’s side tells Mimir that was intentional.

“Why are you being so good to him?”

Ah. Every father’s worry. Mimir would shake his head if he had the neck to, the paranoia in this man is something otherworldly. Arkaios, for his part, is equal part confused and amused.

“Would you rather I treat him poorly?”

“You know what I mean, Arkaios.” As usual when Atreus is concerned, all gloves are off, and the older Spartan grabs Arkaios by one arm, “If you are only doing this out of any sense of obligation to me, I…” _wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if the boy eventually does get hurt by it._

Still, he might have jostled a hornet’s nest for no reason, as Arkaios looks genuinely hurt by the statement, enough to be visibly angry at him. “I do not know whether this is you giving yourself too much credit, or your son too little…” he whispers, roughly shaking off the grip, “But if you actually have to ask the question, clearly you know _fuck all_ about me.”

Kratos does know –he regretted the words the instant they left his mouth, he’s just deathly afraid of anything happening to his little boy and he was being unfair. He wants to say it, he really does. “Arkaios, I—”

“I will go see whether he needs another pair of eyes or not.” The young Spartan rises quickly, but doesn’t go very far –his chest wound acts up, having been jostled in their escape, and he has to lean against the rock formation.

Kratos rushes to his feet to help, but Arkaios doesn’t let him.

“ _Don’t._ ” he hisses, only reigning it in when he sees _Kratos,_ of all people, flinch back at his words. “Just… I’ll be alright.”

It’s just his luck that Atreus returns in that precise moment –he hasn’t heard the conversation, but he is a clever lad and could cut the tension with his knife. He silently searches for Mimir’s eyes and the expression he receives is very much telling.

 _These two are acting like complete idiots._ The boy takes a breath. “The structure is rundown, but there doesn’t seem to be any creatures.” He says, having caught on early on what his father wants to do: wait out the disruption and then take the closest blue door to go back to the temple. “It should be okay to camp around here for a little while.”

Whatever tension was there dissolves, with Arkaios standing back up fully and Kratos turning to him. “Good. Let us find a secure location.” His father says, then turning to Arkaios, “You will lie down, you will let me check that wound, and you will stay down until we can move again. This is not a request.”

To anyone else’s ears it probably sounds like he’s being a complete asshole, but Arkaios knows him better than that –Kratos wishes to talk. He knows that the wound is practically negligible at this point, but this way he doesn’t outright have to ask for the chance to beseech forgiveness.

Which is just as well, since Arkaios isn’t sure he wants to let the man off the hook so easily –he can understand the concerns of a father who has already seen his son in more than a fair share of danger, but surely they go back long enough that _his_ loyalty shouldn’t be one?

Still, he obeys when they manage to find a mostly intact room that has a door even; and Atreus even has the thought to amass some rags he finds around into a bedroll of sorts for him to lie on. He is already feeling a faint smile tugging at his lips, as he lets Kratos take his pauldron off and undo the tunic to check the bandages.

“You know, I haven’t forgiven you for that yet.” He says, although with much less bite than he could have.

Kratos is, for lack of a better word, sheepish about it. “I do know.” He answers, satisfied to see that the injury is still a bit sore, but has not been reopened by their little misadventure, “And I am… sorry. I was pushing my fears on you, and it was unfair of me.”

Silently, Mimir wonders if this is the day he will see a pig take flight.

Arkaios sits up and reaches out, splaying a hand on the older man’s chest. “Feel that?” he asks in a whisper, “That’s the feeling of having been _wrong_ about something. Hold onto it for a second.” He urges, finding Kratos’s eyes with his own and holding them, “To remember that it happens to you, too, every now and then.”

The sheer audacity on this one. Deep down, Kratos knows he wouldn’t have it any other way –also he probably deserved it, just now, he can admit that much. “I will do that.” He starts, making Arkaios look at him in surprise before adding: “ _If_ you remember that you have limits and that there are things you cannot keep up with.” Ah. That’s more like him –always the last word. “Lie down before I decide it’s more trouble than it’s worth and knock you out.”

Arkaios knows better than to think he wouldn’t really do it, and obliges, holding back a smirk. “Sir yes, sir.”

Atreus has done a very good job at pretending to be writing notes on his journal while that conversation took place, but when he sees Arkaios lay down on his belly and start fiddling about with his many pouches, curiosity gets the best of him.

“What is that?” he asks, “Is that the hemlock?”

The Spartan nods at him. “Take care to not touch it.” He warns as he mixes it with another ground substance until the whole thing looks like a strange, translucent goop, “It usually isn’t poisonous unless it’s in your mouth, but better safe than sorry.”

Indeed. Atreus promptly folds his hands on his own lap, watching the man work while Kratos makes a quick round of the area just to make sure no one is there. Once the mixture is deemed satisfactory, Arkaios swipes some with a thumb and runs it over his lower lip first, then the upper one.

“Can I ask you a question, Arkaios?”

“Sure.” He says, rubbing at his lips a bit more until the mixture is completely absorbed.

“What do you do if you want to kiss someone, but without killing them?”

That’s some question, boy. “Well…” he tries hard to find a good way to put it, “Back where I came from, it wasn’t really a problem. After I left… I simply don’t kiss anyone.”

The boy seems pensive. “So you haven’t had a companion for a long time?”

“Not any that would have bothered with kissing.” It is kind of Arkaios to phrase it vaguely, but Atreus knows what it means. And it horrifies him that anyone would do that to someone like him.

Taking care to steer away both from the pouches and from the man’s fingers, still fresh from the poison, the boy rests his forehead on Arkaios’s shoulder. “I am so sorry.”

The amount of empathy in this boy is startling –surely, he must take after his mother in this, considering how utterly hopeless Kratos is in that particular department. All the same, Arkaios leans his head to the side in a comforting touch. “It is in the past, child. I’m here now.”

Atreus sits back with wet eyes, but doesn’t shed tears. He nods resolutely. “Yes. You’re here, with us.” He says, puffing up his chest, “Get some rest. Father and I will keep watch.”

Arkaios has to fight the urge to chuckle at the display –as adorable as it is, he can guess Atreus wishes to be taken seriously at the moment. Even Mimir holds his tongue about it, and the Spartan lies back down on his side. “I will only close my eyes for a moment…”

Neither Atreus or Kratos wake him up when Arkaios inevitably falls asleep. He’s been a kinder force to them than anyone else in Midgard.

He definitely earned all the rest he can get.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter than I would've liked it, but the next scene drags into something that would be way too long.  
> Nothing much in terms of action, but a whole mess of feelings and pining for the joy of all our hearts! XD  
> Atreus and Mimir are just about ready to bash their heads together.
> 
> Fun fact about hemlock: it is normally a slow acting toxin, giving the first effects in half an hour, but it is extremely deadly and it was actually widely used in ancient Greece. Let's just pretend that Arkaios has some alchemic way of making it faster (hey, we have Giants and witches and reanimated heads... a poison accelerant isn' t a stretch. Right?)
> 
> Either way, I have to go and get ready for work at record-speed now, but it was worth it.  
> I hope?  
> Pls love me <3


	7. As we are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arkaios. Look at me when I speak to you. Why?”
> 
> “Is it not obvious?” 
> 
> ~
> 
> Out of nowhere, Atreus remembers the first riddle he came across while travelling with father.
> 
>  
> 
> _As we are, we two, we three. As I alone can never be._

 

Not much time passes while they wait for whoever was trying to mess with the runic doorways to get bored before it goes completely dark.

With nightfall, all manners of creatures come out; and they make all manners of sounds, so it isn't too distressing to hear that the surrounding area isn't so silent anymore. What is distressing is the bumps and clanks coming closer and closer to where they are, irregular and different from footfalls, as if different types of creatures were leaping from place to place on the way.

Even Arkaios, who had just been asleep moments prior, opens his eyes slightly. "Did you hear that?" It sounded like hose undead things. Draugr, Atreus called them.

"Stay put. Save your strength." Kratos intercepts, nodding to his son. "Boy. Come with me."

The Spartan should probably protest the order, but he is too tired to care about posturing. He feels his eyes close again, confident that they will be back soon. Tired enough to keep his eyelids open even a moment longer, he completely misses the moment Kratos hesitates at the doorway, shaking his head almost fondly before closing the mildly decaying wooden door behind himself.

 

In the darkness, Arkaios is startled awake by a rustle. His hand quickly goes to his dagger, even as he’s still prone, but stops short when he sees Kratos, on his all fours by his side. “Quietly now.”

The young’s Spartan’s breath hitches in his throat. Never in his life had Kratos ever looked at him like _that_. “Is something wrong?” he barely manages to choke out, “Where is Atreus?”

Kratos’s face falters for a second, but he shakes his head and places his hand on Arkaios’s bandaged chest, splaying out his fingers. “The boy is safe.”

Arkaios feels his entire body tense up. Surely this cannot mean what he thinks it means –it is some kind of fever dream, isn’t it? He attempts to clear his voice. “Then what…”

He is paralysed when Kratos moves to crawl over him and seat himself between his knees. “I want you to sing for me.”

“A-are you hurt anywhere?” possibly in the head? It would be disappointing, but it would explain the sudden shift in behaviour. Kratos doesn’t take his eyes off of him even as he minutely shakes his head. He walks his hands forward at Arkaios’s sides, until he’s close enough to dip his head into the younger warrior’s neck and inhale deeply.

“Not that kind of song.”

There is one thought running amok in Arkaios’s mind at the moment: _sweet, merciful Gods if there ever were any of the sort, this is actually happening._

Kratos’s body is massive against his, so close, and warm and _there._

Arkaios stops questioning it.

His shoulders relax, he drops on his elbows, and he moves his legs apart to accommodate the man in front of him. His eyes close without him noticing, and he feels rather than see Kratos snake a hand behind his shoulder-blades, pulling him close. He arches into it, a hand finding its way to the other’s firm bicep as Kratos shifts to mouth a line from his neck to his shoulder.

Sighing into it, Arkaios brings his other hand to Kratos’s thigh, feeling hard muscle beneath skin… and the messy scab of an untreated stab wound.

It wouldn’t be the first time Kratos ignores his own injuries in favour of pressing forward. But the fact that it is _that_ leg and a cut in _that shape_ gives Arkaios pause enough. There is one quick way to know.

He releases a trembling breath, and moves that same hand up to cradle the other’s neck. “Kiss me.”

Not that he would expect Kratos to balk at the prospect of doing that, it’s the _after_ he’s bracing for.

It’s a harsh and demanding kiss –forceful enough that no one would doubt it’s Kratos’s lips, but it’s a kiss that takes without giving back, and that’s something one would expect from the Ghost of Sparta, without knowing the first thing about who Kratos _really_ is. It’s merciless; the man squeezes him close with no regard for his still-healing chest.

It isn’t a kiss Arkaios particularly enjoys.

However, it does the job. The figure hunching over him sputters to the side and coughs, enough for Arkaios to push him away and reach for his dagger again –just as a powerful kick breaks through the door and the real Kratos runs in, Atreus in tow. “It was an ambush!” the boy exclaims as they enter, “The monsters were trying to separate us, and—” he stops short, as confused as his father and Mimir by the sight of Arkaios, still only half clothed and sitting in his makeshift bedding, less than a foot away from a figure that looks exactly like Kratos.

“Reveal yourself.”

The form shakes and stutters, enveloped in hazy dust until the illusion dissolves and Váli’s figure is revealed. “Smarter than you look.” He chokes out, trying to understand the burning inside his lungs, “You were more than happy to go along with it for a second, _whore_. What gave me away?”

“You haven’t bothered to hide where I stabbed you, back when we first met.” Arkaios may not be a God himself, but he will not take attitude from a conniving bastard that doesn’t have the stones to attack without subterfuge, “Also, most Spartans would be immune to the poison I lace my lips with. That _you_ _aren’t_ is not only telling, but amusing and satisfying.”

Váli tries to choke down a coughing fit. “What have you done to me?!”

“I’ve never tried it on Gods, so it’s safe to say you probably won’t die.” The Spartan says, rising to his feet ready to strike. “But clearly, more than one person here will surely be willing to finish the job.”

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Kratos draws his Blades just as Atreus knocks back an arrow.

Outnumbered and not in top condition, Váli does the only thing he can do from a tactical standpoint. Growling, he throws up a fist and slams it on the concrete floor, breaking out a runic shockwave spell that knocks all three outwards and back. “This isn’t over!” he hisses, before leaping out and disappearing while they are still regaining their wits.

Kratos is still supporting his head with one hand as he stands up, but his gaze finds Arkaios and roots him in place, unyielding. “What was _he_ doing here?”

The younger Spartan looks down at his feet, chest heaving and probably worsened by the harsh slam he just suffered. “He let himself in, disguised as you.”

“And that was reason enough to let him into your bed? To let him—” _‘me’_ , he doesn’t say –“Do that to you?”

“It revealed his true identity, if nothing else.” Arkaios is still not looking at him; and for some reason it frustrates Kratos to no end.

He feels his voice rise. “Arkaios!” he only brings it back to stiff calm as he see the younger warrior flinch, shoulder hunched and posture looking smaller than he actually is, “Look at me when I speak to you. Why?”

The question is clear even without elaborating. Why let that happen? If he had refused Váli’s disguised advances, he could have probably uncovered the ruse just as quickly, possibly even more so, if the Vengeance God became frustrated with refusal. All in all, it’s an obvious question, with a likewise blatantly clear answer.

Arkaios makes an effort to meet Kratos’s eyes. “Is it not obvious?” he says, with a strange taste of defeat in his tone –like he has given up on holding back.

“You…” Kratos inhales and exhales deeply, lowering his eyes for a second before fixing his stern gaze back onto Arkaios, “Your undying loyalty and obedience to me nearly were the death of you. You should practice what you preach, and remember we’re not in Sparta anymore. No one but yourself has authority over your body. You needn’t allow someone to dispose of it as they please even when you don’t want them to just for survival’s sake.”

Oh. Oooh. Many dots connect in Atreus’s head, about what Arkaios has told him about Sparta and his own father’s reservations about recognizing any form of affection at all as genuine and taking it at face value. He feels worse than he already did for Arkaios –father seems to think he’s had to endure people having… their way with him, just to avoid being killed.

Which is just plain wrong.

Arkaios is not denying it, which makes tears well up in Atreus’s eyes. Still, the Spartan’s gaze lingers, this time, meeting Kratos with a challenge.

“Who said I didn’t want that to happen just now?”

In a loss of control rare for his later years, Kratos lashes out: he shoots a hand forward, grabbing Arkaios roughly by the chin and tugging him close. “Is _this_ what you want?!” he growls to him nose to nose, low and dangerous, bringing his other hand up to the other’s slender neck, “Do you really want to be _destroyed_ , by someone that cannot give you what you deserve and who does _not_ deserve the extent of what you give to them?” his hands clench, and he sees a flash of fear in Arkaios’s eyes. “Is _this_ what you’re looking forward to?”

“You’re right.” The younger manages to choke out, and Kratos releases him with a huff –only to be surprised when Arkaios continues even as he rubs a hand over his throat: “We’re not in the garrison anymore, and thus you have _no right_ to tell me what I should or shouldn’t desire.”

Before this moment, Arkaios’s back-talk was always light hearted and never really insubordinate. Now? He looks like he would genuinely fight him over this. Taking advantage of Kratos’s stunned silence, he carries on: “I have sworn my loyalty to you, and I will die by that vow; but do not mistake such loyalty as blind. My eyes see all too well. Especially the things you _do not want_ to look at. My actions towards you may be driven by sworn duty –but my feelings are not. And they are my own to have. You do with the knowledge of them what you wish.”

Just as he had puffed up to let the confession finally pour out, he deflates, voice suddenly dejected and meek. “I will understand if you wish to send me away after this.”

Atreus is equal parts disturbed and devastated. This isn’t at all what he wanted for his father and his friend! They like each other, he knows they do, but Arkaios is so convinced his affections are not returned and father is so adamant in not wanting to even ponder his own feelings, that they’re destroying what could be a perfectly good thing. He feels like screaming. So he does.

"No!!! Why are you being like this?!" He runs up to Arkaios, grabbing both his wrists and trying to shake him, "Don't you want to stay with us?! With me??"

The Spartan's expression twists with guilt and pain. "Oh, child..." he breathes out, easing his wrists out of Atreus's surprisingly strong grip to properly hold his hands, "I do. Dearly. It is... not up to me."

Instantly, the boy turns to his father.

Kratos is standing just a few feet away, both fists clenched at his sides. Together with his confession, Arkaios has also offered him a way out –drive him away, if he truly doesn't want any part in this. Out of sight, out of mind. He is very tempted to take it and be done with all these…distractions, except for a voice at the back of his mind, calling him a coward, over and over.

"Just a few hours ago, you were offended at the idea that I thought so little of you that I wouldn’t believe your affections for Atreus were sincere." He says, trying very hard to ignore the sudden hammering in his chest, barely even able to meet the other’s eyes, ablaze with fierceness and a hurt that Kratos wishes desperately he wasn’t the cause of. He really has a talent for destroying things. "If you think so little of me that you'd believe I would send you away because of a bared heart... then I guess the score is even.” His lips curl the tiniest bit upwards in a wistful smile. “Now come, we have a lot of ground to cover." He stops there, even managing the ghost of a nod in the younger man's direction. The voice in his head complains that it is not all he should say, _just admit it, you damn coward: you have no idea what's in your own heart and it terrifies you. Say it, you're merely scared to look and find nothing. Say it! Say it!_

He stays quiet.

Arkaios returns the nod, then lowers his eyes towards Atreus, parting his lips to smile at the boy. "We are staying together after all, child."

While immensely good news, it also breaks Atreus's heart that the Spartan still thinks his feelings unrequited and his father _still_ refuses to address his own, whatever they may be. But they are both tense from the closely escaped disaster and from tugging at what clearly is an exposed nerve. Atreus is smart to know when to pick his battles and drops it... for now.

After properly gathering their wits and their stuff, they head back to the nearest blue rune doorway –confident enough that, while it was most probably not lethal, Váli will be too busy trying to recover from the effects of the poison to try anything else anytime soon.

Not surprisingly, Arkaios is lagging slightly behind. Atreus chances a look at him and then turns to his father. He has had enough.

"Father?" His own voice is barely above a whisper, weak and tired –possibly both from the screaming and the runic blast they all suffered.

Kratos keeps looking forward. "What is it, boy?"

The child takes a deep breath. "Why didn't you just tell Arkaios that you care for him, too?"

He sees his father's jaw clench up briefly, as Kratos pauses and then exhales slowly.

"It is not that simple, son."

"It's not?" Atreus presses on, "Why not? He told you he cares for you, don't you feel the same?"

"He _thinks_ he cares for me." From his perch on Kratos's hips, Mimir finally catches the missing piece. There it is. The deep-rooted self-loathing gnawing at the back of Kratos's heart, telling him that no one would have authentic feelings for a monster like him. "He was very young when we first met. He believes he owes me much more than what I actually did for him. What he feels is... misguided."

"With all due respect, brother, _bollocks_!" The Head says, fed up with this self-flagellating shit, "You can believe what you want, but you can’t presume to know more about the lad's heart than he himself. And if that’s the reason you're still trying to run from this confrontation, I'm sorry to say that it's a very poor excuse to hide behind. You're scared brother. And there's nothing wrong with that!"

"I am not scared. I am..." but there really isn't a better word for it. Because everyone he had, everyone he ever loved, has always died bloody in his arms. He cannot protect everyone –he can barely protect his own son– and slamming face-first into this limitation made him reluctant to consider any kind of bond to anyone. Less than all Arkaios, bright, loyal to a fault, kind hearted and playful, who does not deserve the vast array of enemies and disaster Kratos seems to attract with every breath. "...I do not know."

"Maybe we should start with what you _do_ know, then." Atreus says, voice dropping to an actual whisper, "Do you not like Arkaios?"

One of the very few lights in his old garrison, and one of the precious few people he could remember happily? How could he _not_ cherish him? "I do like him."

"Do you not want him to stay?"

Kratos is starting to think his little boy might actually be patronizing him a bit by breaking the questions to such a simple yes or no game. He answers regardless: "I do want him to stay."

"Then what else is there?"

"Atreus..." Kratos has to actually close his eyes –it cannot be that simple, not for him. Never for him.

"No, tell me, I want to know!" The boy isn't letting up on this, and eventually Kratos gives up and tries to piece together an answer that makes sense.

"There is more than that. I cannot be so selfish that I consider only my own wishes, for one." He explains, "I have you to care for, for example."

"But if that's the problem you don't have to worry, I—"

"And then there's the matter of what he told me." Kratos makes sure to stop Atreus's protest short, "He has made his intentions very clear. I do not yet know if I could even ever give him what he wishes for, I never even considered..."

"...why not?"

"I do not find myself deserving of having anyone care for me in this lifetime. So even entertaining the thought of sharing my own heart seemed pointless." And it is a harsh revelation, but still feels like a relief to finally be able to tell Atreus. If anything, at least the boy won't make his same mistakes. "The things I have done... the things he has _seen_ by my side even... what he _knows_ I did and what I am... I did not deserve Faye. I did not deserve you..." he brings his hand up to caress his son's cheek fondly, "I already have so much more than I could possibly hope for... and in my experience, good things always have a catch."

Putting his small hand on top of his father's much bigger one, Atreus weighs this confession in his heart and takes a deep breath, before he looks up at Kratos with a wisdom in his eyes that goes beyond his years: "Good things, maybe. Good _people_ do not." After all, Arkaios only wants to stay by his side, for no other reason than staying, and to be cherished as a comrade if nothing else. "Please promise to think about it, father."

This time, the blue rune doorway opens in the correct place, and they are greeted by the sounds of Brok and Sindri tinkering away. Arkaios has been silent for the whole way –unsurprising, but still unsettling to have lost the bright smile and constant playful words he had gotten used to.

_Get a hold of yourself, Kratos; it has barely been a few days, for crying out loud!_

He drops the container at the dwarves' table with barely a grunt of acknowledgment -which Brok obviously doesn't miss:

"Hey! What’s tha matter with ya? Sumthin' crawl up your ass??"

Kratos doesn't even react, and pulls out the chisel instead. "Make this work."

Brok actually stays silent and looks to his brother instead of giving any kind of uncouth answer. There’s something wrong in the air and even he can feel that making rude jokes will not help at all.

"Of course!" Sindri says, trying to sound neutral but still coming off as uneasy –which, granted, is not much of a difference from his usual disposition– "Leave it to us! We'll be done in no time!"

 

From the corner of his eye, Kratos can see Atreus trying to strike up a conversation with Arkaios –the Spartan clearly doesn't feel like talking, but makes an effort to indulge the boy.

Twice over now Kratos has slighted Arkaios by assuming that he wouldn't know his own mind. If he won’t address how _he_ feels –mostly because he is absolutely awful at this whole ‘feeling’ thing, not to mention a complete mess– the very least he can do is try to make amends for the things he said.

He approaches the conversing figures.

“And into the vault, there were _heaps_ of treasures and strange things from all lands! And—” despite being smack-dab in the middle of a tale, Atreus whips his head around as soon as he sees his father’s shadow. “Mimir!” he suddenly exclaims. “I need to take you, uh… to that side. There’s this scripture I found and I need your help interpreting it. Right now.”

Oh, Atreus. You sweet, sweet boy.

“Do you mind, brother?”

Kratos hands him over wordlessly, and the boy sprints away with Mimir to a side of the Temple the older warrior is pretty sure they explored already, but the sentiment is appreciated. He would indeed very much prefer to be alone with the other for this.

Even Arkaios seems amused, as he crosses his arms. “He is a clever and charming boy, bless him, but about as subtle as _you_ are.” Which is not at all.

Already aware of his absolute lack of subtlety, Kratos doesn’t protest the statement. For once, his eyes are downcast –and it takes effort before he can meet the other’s. “Arkaios… what do I say, to even _begin_ asking—”

“Stop.” He gets shushed by the tips of Arkaios’s fingers pressing on his lips. “You have done nothing that needs to be forgiven.” The young Spartan says, his expression finally softening and looking more like his usual self, “Just because you know of my true feelings now it doesn’t mean you have to do anything about them.” Technically true, but the cold rationality of the concept sits wrong in Kratos’s chest, especially if compared to how warm Arkaios normally is as a person. “I needed some moments to myself, since that whole disaster is not exactly how I pictured you would find out, it was messy, and lines were definitely crossed, but…” he drops his hand, once more splaying it on Kratos’s chest, just over his heart, “I still respect you greatly, regardless of what my desires for you are. And I will follow you. To Helheim, to death… anywhere else. If you’ll have my dagger by your side.”

Kratos is grateful to hear those words, and stays silent for the whole time. He closes his eyes when the other’s hand touches his chest, relishing the feeling and the warmth. Behind his closed eyelids, he can still see Arkaios prone on the ground, long hair spilled about and Váli’s figure hovering over him in a way he had no business doing –it made him furious, for some reason, and it aggravated his reactions to Arkaios’s dismissal of the way the Vengeance God tried to take advantage, making the argument explode into something it shouldn’t have.

 _Then tell him, you daft idiot._ The voice in his head, sounding more and more like Mimir, urges him. _You’re not stupid; you know what that unpleasant, crawling sensation under your skin was when you really think about it._

Jealousy. It should have been _him_. The real him.

“It would be my honor, to have you fight by my side.” Damn it. He just can’t –it feels too sudden and too soon, the realization literally threw his mind for a loop, it doesn’t make any reasonable sense.

Then again, that’s why they’re called _feelings_ and not reasons. But Kratos has a long past of letting his impulses lead him into terrible decisions, and he doesn’t want to be blind-sighted again, not when the consequences wouldn’t hit only him anymore.

So it’s probably for the best, at least for now, that he leaves it at that and extend his forearm to Arkaios, who grabs it readily and with a smile –finally, looking like himself again– as they shake on it.

Kratos’s mind decides it is a good moment to make him idly notice how easy it would be, to tug the smaller man forward and just kiss him. Atreus seems to think he should, Mimir called him out on it –coming to think of it, Mimir probably was onto him from the start, what with all those comments he made at first – and it says something about oversight if their _enemy_ has guessed something like what he pulled would work, after seeing them barely twice and only in battle.

But _no_. He will be responsible about this, and think it through. He owes it to his son, and to Arkaios himself, to take this as seriously as can be.

Arkaios takes a deep breath and nods to him once, breaking position and moving over to the dwarves’ table. Kratos finds himself tracking the other’s hand as he tucks stray hair behind his ear –he really should shake it out and tie it properly again, it has come all kinds of undone– which only serves to remind him of the moment _he_ did it for the young warrior and how nice it felt to run his fingers through the long tresses. It’s been a long time since anyone but family has ever trusted him to be behind them.

He shakes his head minutely, shutting the offending thought off, and distracts himself by making his way to his son and Mimir.

“If you two are quite done pretending not to be listening…” he extends his hands for Atreus to give Mimir back. Atreus readily obeys.

“We were not! Really!” he says, “…should we have been?” he then asks, big bright eyes clouding slightly with uncertainty, “What did you tell him?”

“The truth, or as much as I understand the truth as it is.” Kratos answers, securing Mimir back to his hip, “That regardless of feelings, I do wish for him to stay with us.”

Atreus inhales deeply, and exhales very slowly. “That’s…” much as he would like to call it what it is, he is a dutiful son and he respects his father. “…progress. It’s good.”

Seemingly in a better mood, Kratos just barely cracks a smile at his son. "Gather your stuff. We’re going soon.”

“Um, Sindri?” Arkaios asks, in the meantime, trying not to disturb the dwarf but also vaguely amused by the jittery man, “Can you enchant my dagger so I can recall it to me after I throw it?”

“That’s an ability that requires some fine-tuning.” Sindri comments, looking at his brother and then back at him as he takes the offered weapon, “Do you have time to practise it?”

“I will make do.” The Spartan assures, “Can’t be worse than finding yourself dagger-less after throwing your only weapon in an ogre’s eyeball, am I right?”

Sindri immediately drops said dagger onto the worktable with a gagging sound. Brok rolls his eyes at his brother’s paranoia. “Sure we can do that for ya, if’n you’re sure.”

“I am. I will need it in Helheim.”

That much is true –considering the types of creatures that dwell there, they need all the weapon power they can get. The dwarves get to work.

 

The imbued chisel feels hotter under Kratos’s hands, but he is used to that –the Chaos Blades were seared into his arms, he can take it. They open the Bifrost and start walking the path to Helheim, and Atreus takes the chance to fall into step with Arkaios and ask him another question that could turn out uncomfortable: “Why did Váli try to take you in bed?” on the floor, technically, but irrelevant.

Arkaios ponders for a second. “You said the creatures under his control were trying to separate you from your father, right?” at the boy’s nod, he continues, “Then it makes sense, as a strategy: he was using an illusion to look like your father –somebody I trust and would follow– to get me to go with him alone, maybe exploit my voice in his favor, and then kill me.”

And the Spartan being the one of them with the most knowledge about healing and staving off wounds, it would have been a major blow to their defences for future fights.

“That I get.” Atreus says, small hands going pensively under his chin, “But why the kissing?”

It is a dangerous question to ask so soon after… everything, but the boy really does want to know.

Fortunately enough, Arkaios just finds it amusing and answers in a chuckle. “Váli hasn’t had a high opinion of my fighting skills, since the mountain. He believed the only reason I am kept around was to make use of my body; and of the healing voice I guess, after he found out about it.” He answers, not even fazed by the thought that someone would believe that about him, “He probably thought that he was ‘proving’ to me he really was your father by acting that way, and that it would convince me to go with him faster.”

In all his cunning, their enemy hasn’t accounted for the possibility of them being absolutely rubbish at talking out their feelings, and inadvertently gave himself away practically immediately like that.

Okay, it is a little funny.

Especially since the whole fiasco might have just been the push in the right direction that they both needed.

Atreus, for one, really hopes so –if he has learned anything in his journeys with his father, it’s that they could die in any of their next battles. Today, tomorrow, years from now. Is it really worth it to miss out on a chance at even a moment’s happiness just because of your own personal reservations?

“But you knew, then,”

Arkaios nods, “After a few seconds of confusion, I did. And thought to test it out with poison.”

Right. Atreus has seen his father eat a leaf out of that same poisonous plant and not flinch in the least. “How _does_ one become immune to that?”

“It’s a very long process…” the other says, “It takes years and years, because you have to eat a very, very small quantity of it every day, so your body gets used to it. Not everyone does it, the chest pains alone are enough to give nightmares.”

“Do you _have_ to be little when you start?”

The question makes Arkaios briefly look at Kratos for permission to speak frankly –he doesn’t want to give the boy any ideas if his father disapproves, but Kratos just raises an eyebrow at the both of them.

“Not really. It’s a matter of knowing how little or how much you can take, as your body builds up tolerance.” Being part God, the process would probably be faster than most for young Atreus, but, again, Arkaios doesn’t want to put wild ideas into the child’s mind yet. Not when their primary concern is still the angry God coming after them.

Atreus himself seems to understand that, and only says “Okay.” as the doorway to Helheim appears. On a whim, he takes Arkaios’s hand as they walk through, to see if the Spartan would let him hold it.

He feels proud when Arkaios not only does, but gives it a little squeeze as they walk through –he may not be his father, but he too cares about the Spartan in his own way, and it makes him happy to know Arkaios cares in return.

Out of nowhere, he remembers the first riddle he came across while travelling with father.

_As we are, we two, we three. As I alone can never be._

Family.

Huh. So that’s what that feeling was.

The boy smiles to himself. He hopes, with all of his heart, that this will last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I a terrible person? I feel like some of that was pretty damn terrible.  
> My poor babies. Why do I make them suffer like this.
> 
> Mimir is so fucking done with Kratos's bullshit. I love him.
> 
> Also this might feel very sudden and jumpstarted into a faster pace than it should have been, but it's meant to be. You suddenly become much more willing to take action upon your feelings if it hits you in the face that the person or thing you care about might very easily be taken away from you -especially if you sit on your ass and do nothing about it.  
> Kratos's situation is a bit different, because on one hand: yes, we could fucking die tomorrow, so why have I been worried about inane shit instead of looking at what's in front of my nose?  
> But on the other hand also: we could fucking die tomorrow, _he_ could fucking die tomorrow, do I really want to go through the pain and loss and everything all over again? Do I want to subject my _son_ to that again? Is it selfish to just give myself this, consequences be damned?  
>  We all know what Atreus thinks about it. Kratos is literally the last one to have to get on board.  
> Let's hope he gets his head out of his ass soon, right? XD
> 
> Oh, and about hemlock: all parts of the plant are poisonous, seeds, leaves, flowers... apparently you can die yeating game birds that have eaten hemlck seeds (they are immune) that's how poisonous it is. But there was an ancient Greek king, Mithridates, who had made himself immune to poison by assuming it in very small quantities all his life -he is very well known where I come from (in Italy they make you study Greek and Roman history reeeeeal well) because the passage about his death mentions that: defeated and captured, Mithridates attempts suicide by poisoning himself, but he is immune to poisn so he has his best friend kill him with his sword.  
> So yeah, that's a bit of trivia there.
> 
> I should be mad at foxes for keeping me awake all nigt, but I can't stay mad since it got me to post this.  
> I'mma go hug a pillow as I wait for people to be mad at me, kthxbye >w<  
> <3


	8. To Whom The Heart Belongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You, your son… and I would guess the lad here; too… all exist _outside_ of the prophecy somehow.” The Head concludes, eyes glowing brightly and knowing, “So Fate is the path, but the steps taken are entirely up to you.”

Helwalkers are a pain to deal with. Their nature makes the Leviathan Axe, enchanted with ice, useless against them; and with regular weapons there is only so much that can be done.

Luckily, there's nothing in this or any other world that can withstand the Chaos Blades. They delve deeper into Helheim without too much trouble, as they try to look for those doors concealing secret runes only detected by the chisel.

It's proving increasingly difficult to find them, and more than once there have been obstacles in their path taking the forms of tangled vines that Kratos could swear had never been before in Helheim.

"Curious." Mimir notes as Kratos destroys yet another web of vines by burning it with his blades, "It looks a lot like old magic."

"It can't be." Váli is not old enough to know it, and Freya cannot travel between realms either. Also she might hate Kratos and want him dead, but she would not be in any hurry to speed Ragnarok along and fulfill prophecies. That means her magic was either stolen or given up upon threat. "Even if it is, we will not let it slow us down."

And true to Kratos's words, it does not. It's when they reach the big, open cave with the Bridge of the Damned that everything changes: the giant bird guarding the place, content to ignore them in all their previous endeavours through the Realm, suddenly turns to pin its gaze on them with a screech.

Its eyes glow the same color as the chisel for a moment, and it lunges at them, sinking its talons right into Kratos's chest and hefting him up.

Atreus screams, firing arrows in rapid succession at it, if only to distract it, but is ignored, as is Arkaios. In a desperate move, the Spartan opens his poison pouch and pours it on the dagger, before aiming right for the eye. It probably won't do much, but hopefully it will sting enough for the beast to let go.

It happens, but none too gently: Kratos is flung across the air and onto the rock formations. Arkaios is by his side in an instant, as well as Atreus.

"He will be okay, right?"

The young Spartan doesn't want to turn Kratos to examine the punctures along his back to avoid making him bleed more, especially since, at a quick glance while he was falling, none of them looked as bad as the hole in his chest, halfway between the shoulder and the pectoral. Arkaios immediately applies pressure to the wound with one hand, while he uses the other to grab his ointment pouch and just pour whatever is left on it. "He will, boy, he will..." his voice breaks a little as he starts humming and the mixture glows, along the blood already flowing on his hands.

Kratos coughs, which the others take as a blessing –he's still alive after all.

"Kratos?" Arkaios calls, both hands still on the wound "Talk to me."

"Arkaios... the boy..."

"I'm here, father!" Atreus hurries to say, tiny hands clasping around his father's, if he can do nothing else but _be_ there. "I'm unharmed."

"Good..." Kratos's eyes drop slightly, half-lidded, and Arkaios immediately brings one bloodied and glowing hand up to his face, slapping him ever so slightly.

" _No!_ You stay awake!" He orders, "I will _not_ let you die in front of your child! Keep yourself awake. Sing with me. I know you know the words."

Having to focus to actually hear the melody Arkaios is humming, the older man does feel less compelled to close his eyes, and chokes out a chuckle when he makes out the song.

“Φταίει γιατί … την αγάπη μου ποτέ δε λογαριάζει… Φταίει γιατί… μ' έχει κάνει να με τρώει το μαράζι…” Arkaios starts forming actual words, and he does his best to keep himself breathing and join in.

“Φταίει γιατί… άλλα κάνει άλλα τάζει… κι όλο πρόσωπο αλλάζει και μου λέει…” His already gravelly voice is further lowered and hoarsened by the blood in his mouth; and, had he not be so scared for his father's life, Atreus might have commented that it'll be best to leave the singing to Arkaios... but as it is, he is just glad his father is still drawing breath, considering the gaping, frostbitten hole in his chest –and the three more behind his back, although less deep, bleeding into the fur lining of his armor.

“Λέει, λέει, λέει  
πως δε μ' αγαπάει  
έτσι λέει  
Λέει, λέει, λέει  
και μετά το μετανιώνει κλαίει…”

With Arkaios's song, the blood gushing out of the wound has already slowed down to an almost stop, and the edges, angry, red and curled outwards from the bird's icy talons, have started to fold back in, reducing the wound sizably.

After what feels like an eternity, Kratos feels enough strength come back to him to return the grip of Atreus's hands.

Tears of relief fall from the boy's face. "Father..."

"My boy..." Kratos manages to caress the back of the boy's head, as Arkaios helps him sit up to take off the pauldron and bandage his chest.

"The wounds on your back are still open, but this will do, for now." The young Spartan knows Kratos is strong –he'll survive.

Flooded with relief, Atreus heaves a breath and chances a look around them –if nothing else, the bird’s fearsome attack has scared away any creature from the surrounding area; they have a few moments of respite. Which is the moment he catches sight of a very familiar green glow.

He has never been so actually glad his mother taught him runic languages and runic magic. “Wait!” he scrambles the few meters away he needs to grab the stone before coming back.

Arkaios looks at him, confused as to how a green rock is supposed to help them in this situation, but Atreus smiles confidently at him. “ _This_ will do, trust me.” he says, placing the stone in his father’s hand and bringing it closed to his chest, “Father, use this!”

As Kratos clenches his fist and destroys the stone, Arkaios wonders what even the point of that was, until he notices the green mist left behind when the stone broke into pieces is now seeping into the man’s skin, helping along with closing his wounds –not only the one in the chest, but also all the scrapes and minor hits that Arkaios himself ignored in favor of keeping the man alive and breathing. “Isn’t that something…”

Truly, this child’s quick thinking and talent for magic is astounding –and probably saved Kratos’s life more times than the older man actually knows.

Mimir’s voice startles him out of his stupor.

“Never do that again, brother! You really scared me for a moment!”

Arkaios actually chuckles at that. “Yes, please. Seeing you impaled once was harrowing enough. Twice? It’s already two times too much. Any more near-death experiences and my hair will turn whiter than your skin.”

Kratos will blame the blood loss for the thought, later, but what he runs through his mind is _You’d still be beautiful._ Luckily, he’s not quite in top shape just yet, and only a cough comes out of his mouth as he spits excess blood on the stony ground.

"The bird—" he then says, trying to stand up and shield them with his body, "It only wants me.” It saw all three of them, but ignored the other two –it might be that it would only go after the one brandishing the chisel, but it can also mean another thing… “I guess my heart does belong to the Damned..."

"No.” Arkaios says, looking at him in a way that doesn’t really leave room for doubt. “If yours does, then so does mine. I was by your side for a _lot_ of it." He is just about to brush a hand along Kratos's tattooed cheek when they hear another screech.

The bird has recovered, Arkaios’s dagger abandoned on the stone surface, and it's coming for them.

Kratos tries to get in a fighting stance, but Atreus is faster than him:

"No!!!" He puts himself in front of his father, burying his face in the man's bloodied midriff, and at the same time Arkaios also steps in front of the both of them, facing the bird's talons.

He instinctively closes his eyes, but never feels the beast pierce him.

Tentatively opening his eyes to look, the Spartan sees the bird hesitate, as if it's studying them.

"Would you look at that." Mimir comments. "It changed its mind."

Fear slowly leaving in favour of curiosity and fascination, Atreus also turns to look. "But... how?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, little brother!" The Head says, "But if I had to guess... the bird only attacked because, whenever you’re wielding those blades, brother, _you_ firmly believe you belong to the damned –so much so that the bird was fooled."

Kratos doesn't refute the statement. He always thought once a monster, always a monster. "...What made it change his mind?"

Mimir almost sighs at how oblivious the man can be. Brilliant warrior and decent strategist, but oblivious in every other part of him. "Best guess? As these two threw their lives on the line to shield you, your heart went out to them and the bird saw it for what it is."

It sounds like one of the stupid stories the old man used to tell Kratos –but it's as good a guess as any.

They're still mostly frozen under the giant bird's scrutiny, and for a second Arkaios fears that the fighting will resume; but no. Eventually, the bird retracts its talons and steps back, fussing up its feathers before setting back down on the far edge of the Bridge.

Atreus releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. He turns to face his father again: "Never do that again."

"I will try not to, my boy."

Kratos's hands are also dirty with blood, but he doesn't care as he caresses his little boy's head.

Taking advantage of this brief moment of respite, Arkaios quickly circles around Kratos to do a quick check of his wounds.

"Well." He says with a sigh, "It's as good as it is going to get." Finally, he cracks a smile, and he brushes the back of his hand under the older man's mouth to try and get at least some of the blood out of his beard. It's such a foreign gesture that even in his battered state Kratos is left speechless –something so… mundane and domestic, almost, that he hadn't experienced in so long and didn't think he would ever again, but still so undeniably 'them' that it nearly makes him laugh. "I had almost forgotten how tough you actually are. Any closer and it would have been your heart."

Kratos closes his eyes. _Maybe it was._ "...It would seem I owe _you_ my life now. Twice over." Once for saving him with his healing song, once for being part of the reason the bird stopped attacking.

Mimir wishes he could punch the fool. He almost died, and still won't just say it! At least they have the go-ahead to be there from the bird.

If Arkaios sees something different in the way Kratos looks at him, he doesn't mention it. “Then the score is even.” Is all he says, "Let's get this over with."

They press on, and Atreus fights with renewed vigour any creatures that they face. He even manages to drop a Helwalker on shock arrow power alone, firing four in rapid succession then spending the next few seconds evading and finally using his favorite tactic: elevating himself by jumping on top of his father before firing his stampede of shock boars.

He almost misses the landing, finding himself airborne over the very edge of a precipice, but Arkaios is fast to grab him by a forearm and swinging him in a half circle, giving him the angle to barrel-roll himself to safety.

The boy looks at him from the corner of his eyes but doesn't stop moving –and it's just as well: Arkaios has also moved on immediately and is now shoulder to shoulder with Kratos, making quick work of the remaining creatures as Atreus himself provides distraction and stun fire.

The battle is quick and seamless –Atreus knows he had a balance with his father when they fought together; and he's not surprised to notice that Arkaios joined it seamlessly, as the middle distance between Kratos's explosive full contact and his own ranged attacks.

The cave is finally emptied of monsters, and Kratos can run the chisel along the concealed wall until it starts to react. A first strike only weakens it, and once again there’s a reaction of hostile vines appearing and snapping at his arms. He just destroys them with the blades.

By now, they all have guessed that, even if Freya’s magic was stolen, she simply turned a blind eye to it, either too overcome with grief to care or hoping that Váli’s quest to end Kratos’s life will be successful.

“It’s weak.” He comments, as he runs the chisel along the now freed surface to look for the next point,

“That would make sense.” Atreus offers, walking up to him, “Stolen magic is always weaker than that which is freely given.” Feeling rather than seeing Arkaios’s surprised look, the boy turns. “My mother taught me more than runes and hunting.” He simply says, taking a page out of the Spartan’s book and extending a wink at him. “What I don’t understand is how it made it here. Váli can’t travel realms, right?”

“He might have stuffed the necessary runes into his subjugated minions and sent them here to destroy themselves against the seals.” It’s a pretty obvious guess –at least for someone who knows cruelty, has seen it first-hand… or has practiced it.

Atreus weighs his father’s words in his head. Eventually, he crosses his arms. “Yeah, I’m not going to feel very guilty about killing this guy.”

“Bless your heart little brother.” Mimir says affectionately, then calling the other two’s attention as well: “If he actually succeeded, it would make for a huge change!”

Arkaios frowns at him, more confused than before. “Change? In what?”

“In the prophecies foretelling Ragnarok, Váli is born and grows to full adulthood in one day, to kill Hodr and avenge Baldur’s death –as another sign of the coming of Ragnarok– but he is foretold to _survive_ Ragnarok itself.” Mimir explains, not missing Kratos’s mutter about it being _prophecies, again_ , but choosing wisely not to comment on it. “You two already came along and killed Baldur well before what should have been his time –forcing Váli into this world too soon, thing that could be the reason it took him so long to grow and come for you– which can only mean one thing, brother.”

“And that is?”

“You, your son… and I would guess the lad here, too… all exist _outside_ of the prophecy somehow.” The Head concludes, eyes glowing brightly and knowing, “So Fate is the path, but the steps taken are entirely up to you.” Ragnarok will happen, and it _will_ be messy… but the outcome is as uncertain as anything else in the world.

It’s a small comfort, but it is one all the same. Kratos finally finds the weak spot in the seal and destroys the Rune. “Let us find the remaining ones and get out of here.”

 

Between searching for all the Runes of the Damned and fighting creatures, Atreus gets to see what Arkaios meant, when they first met, about any enemy grabbing his hair –a draugr shoots out a clawed hand and gets a hold of Arkaios’s long hair, but the Spartan is fast, faster than anyone Atreus has ever seen: instead of trying to pull away or break free, Arkaios grabs the attacking hand and pulls the creature close to him and downwards, pivoting on himself in such a way that twists the draugr’s arm at the mercy of the Spartan’s chest and elbow, which results in Arkaios snapping the bones in the creature’s arm with what looked like simple leverage.

The Spartan doesn’t even look at it as he keeps a hold of the now shrieking creature’s wrist and stomps his foot on its neck to quickly finish it off, only then recalling his dagger from wherever it had ended up.

Even father will have to admit that’s pretty damn efficient –going by the look on his face, Kratos had never seen it in action either. “What… was that?”

Arkaios smiles playfully at them, undoing the string tying his hair and shaking it all out, since it had gotten too messy to keep tied. “It’s called a lever. A scholar taught me how to do that.”

The older man has a hard time believing that. “A scholar?”*

“He made all these calculations on things that can bend and break… very useful for fighting if brute strength is _not_ your biggest asset.” After all, not everyone has the power of a God in their fists.

“That’s ingenious! Will you teach me sometime?” All things considered, it would probably be good for Atreus to know –even though the boy will hopefully grow much stronger than any mortal of his same height and build… nobody has even been hurt by possessing more knowledge rather than less.

A lesson he learned only after it was almost too late. He fights down a chuckle at watching his boy talk excitedly with Arkaios, despite the grim place they are in, and just raises the chisel to search the concealed wall for weak points.

It’s as they’re walking back out of the chamber after successfully destroying the second to last Rune that Kratos notices: string between his teeth, Arkaios barely even runs his hands through his hair twice before quickly tying it back at the base of his neck. It still irks him –sure, Arkaios has proven to have an excellent defence against grappling… but decapitation is so much faster than that… he hates even the thought of leaving Arkaios vulnerable to that. It sits wrong enough in him that he calls out to the younger warrior.

“Do that properly, or _I_ will.”

Arkaios sends a look at Atreus, conveying an obvious _is he always like this?_

Remembering how father fixed his broken quiver, the boy can safely say that _yes, he is always like this_.

Tugging off the string with a roll of his eyes, Arkaios offers it to the older man. “By all means.”

What Kratos hadn’t accounted for is that being so close to Arkaios _after_ the truth has been exposed would feel any different. He runs both hands in the younger man’s hair, splaying it down his shoulders to give it some order before pulling it up… but he is sure taking his sweet time with that.

“Careful.” Comes the whisper just in front of him, “Keep at that any longer and I might think you’re enjoying yourself.”

Kratos sighs. “It is not that.” He says, still struggling to find words to express what he himself scarcely comprehends, “I want you to understand… I am not denying what you told me. I just wonder… where does the boy grateful to have his life back end, and where does the man that knows what he wants start?”

Arkaios lets himself revel in the feeling of Kratos’s large hands gathering his hair and pulling it up. “Does it matter?” he asks, while the older man ties the long tresses in place,

“It does. I couldn’t jump into something that, while tempting, is only an illusion driven from misguided gratitude to an unworthy ideal.” Kratos doesn’t quite know why he’s actively trying to keep his voice as low as possible, as if they are discussing secrets –everything that happened between them up to this point has been very well under the eyes of both Head and boy. Still, it’s in whispers that he continues: “If you really feel for me, it has to be for _me_ , not for what I represent in your mind.”

The younger Spartan has to concede that point. He would feel horrible about only being of worth to a person because of a specific set of reason –it has happened often enough in his lifetime that he knows the hurt of just being a _thought_ to someone. “It’s not that.” He says, turning in place once Kratos is done tying his hair securely to the nape of his head, but not making any further distance between them, “It was at first, when I was barely more than a child looking up to the one person that cared to give me food and shelter, and teach me how to fight. But now? It’s so much more selfish than that.” Here as they are, practically forehead to chin while still in a chamber full of dead monsters, Arkaios finds it in himself to raise his hands to Kratos’s cheek in a way he had never allowed himself to. “I _want_ to be near you. Because you’re you, because it makes _me_ feel happy. And your son? I like him, too. I wish to protect him, and see him happy and safe. He is a sweet boy. He will grow strong, wise… and handsome. Like you.”

“Arkaios…” Kratos turns his head only so slightly, the corner of his lips brushing against the palm of the hand resting on his cheek; and a beat of silence passes between them, only broken when Mimir loudly expresses what were also Atreus’s thoughts on the whole thing:

“For the sake of all that is good, brother, either kiss the lad right where he stands or get a move on! I don’t want to stay in this nightmarish land any longer than we have to.”

Arkaios jumps back as if scorched, and Kratos feels the absence of that contact so much his body tips imperceptibly forward before he can regain his wits. It’s enough to make Atreus giggle quietly.

“He’s right.” The boy says, not without a hint of mirth in his voice, “We should find the last Rune and get out.”

The only retaliation Arkaios offers is a hand in the child’s hair, ruffling it about and giving him a very gentle push. “Can you believe the cheek on this one?”

“You are a terrible influence.” The older Spartan says, throwing his Chaos blade at the Hel Wind crystal to capture it and use it to open the next door before them. Arkaios makes a show out of scoffing at him.

“Me? I’ve barely been here a few days.”

Kratos doesn’t fall for it –neither does Atreus as he watches them bicker like they’ve been near each other forever, “That’s how terrible of an influence you are.”

The boy has to actually cover his lips not to comment. He will have to find ways to get the two of them alone as soon as they get out of Helheim –the grounds are _ripe_ for these two finally admitting to what’s blatantly there between them.

 

As luck would have it, the last Rune of the Damned is near a pillar situated way too close to the Bridge of the Damned for comfort, but they have a job to do and will see it through to the end. Privately, Kratos notices that the body of the Guardian has disappeared –whether it was dissolved or eaten by other creatures is unknown to him, but the residues of the battle are plenty visible in sunken, broken stone and dried blood still staining it.

To his credit, the young Spartan manages to keep his curiosity at bay. “I am sure there is a story here, but… let us just get this over with.”

“Once we destroy this, Váli will be vulnerable again, right?”

“Aye, little brother.” Mimir says, “He will not be able to control the dead any longer and the spirits of the Valkyries will have an easier time restoring order. And Váli will be… well, as vulnerable as a God can be.”

Arkaios stays silent. This Baldur they keep mentioning was a God, and they apparently killed _him_. There’s also the uncomfortably long list of Gods, Titans and all manners of supposedly ‘invincible’ creatures that have become little more than blood on Kratos’s knuckles –they all turned out to be _plenty_ vulnerable. But it’s not a notion that the man particularly likes having reminded to him.

The ting of the chisel against the concealed Rune resounds once, twice… and with the third time it’s revealed and destroyed. Bringing the rest of the pillar with it.

It all happens very fast, and Arkaios moves before he can think. “Watch out!” he yells, yanking Kratos back by a forearm and essentially switching places between them as the ground around the pillar collapses into the chasm below as well. Kratos barely has time to realize what is happening, while Atreus has the quicker reflexes this time:

“Niista!” With remarkable aim, the boy fires an arrow at the Bridge’s pillars in such a way that it bounces back and embeds itself into the rocky formations just in front… through Arkaios’s sleeve. It’s not much in terms of an actual rescue, but it slows his descent enough that the Spartan can try and grab at the rocks on his way down –destroying his nails and fingers in the process, but giving Kratos enough time to rush to lean over the edge, grab him by the arms and pull him up.

Arkaios finds himself enveloped in a stronger embrace than any he has ever felt, and he’s quite content to stay where he is.

It wasn’t even that big of a scare, they had it –mostly– under control; and it is not the worry that Arkaios might have fallen to his death that compels Kratos to hold the man in his arm longer than necessary: Kratos has always been used to defending himself, and as such has never had anyone to actually try and protect him… only his own son, recently, has from time to time shown himself more than willing to do so, stabbing or firing arrows at creatures way too big for his tiny frame, actually putting his young life on the line to save his father. That Arkaios would do the same so instinctively speaks volumes of how true the affections Kratos refused to recognize actually run.

Fool. He has been so foolish. He has done everything in his power to forget his past, and instead here this young man is, caring for him not despite it, but precisely because he _knows_ how hard it has been to survive and move on. He knows every awful deed, every dark memory, and still he cares. Enough to jump to his near-death with no hesitation, for him.

This time, Kratos does kiss him. It’s barely a touch of his lips to the younger Spartan’s forehead, but it’s there. “I thought I lost you, for a moment.” He whispers, feeling the thundering heartbeat in Arkaios’s chest against his own and finding it reassuring –he’s _alive_ and _safe_ and _in his arms_.

“Welcome to every other day of my life.” Arkaios jokes back, hiding his face in the other’s neck for just a second, before pulling back from the embrace. “Let’s leave this accursed place.”

The Bifrost path never looked so good.

 

For reasons Kratos does not know but can’t be good, Atreus runs straight to Brok as soon as they’re back to the workshop. He hears the dwarf exclaim “What?!” before his son shushes him and starts whispering things to him, gesturing wildly the whole time.

Arkaios seems just as much at a loss as he is, but much more amused. “Be afraid.” He warns in jest, shaking his head to himself and dragging his tired form into the chamber the dwarves had made into the resting place for them back when they spent the night. Kratos is too busy following the other’s retreating back with his eyes to avoid being startled by Brok’s bellowing call:

“So!” he says, beckoning the man closer, “How about you leave that there Head here for a lil’ while? My brother ‘n I have some measurements to take!”

Mimir is most definitely not thrilled about the notion. “Oh dear, not again.”

“Oh, quit yer whining! It’s gonna be worth it.”

Both dwarves look at Kratos expectantly –Sindri is even keeping his noises of disgust to a minimum.

Realization hits him like a boulder. “Atreus…”

“What?” the boy blinks, a pure portrait of innocence itself. “Oh, I know! I’ll stay here and watch over Mimir, so he won’t be afraid. You go on ahead and get some rest!” he says, running to his father and swiping Mimir before either of them can have a say in the matter. Atreus runs back to the workshop table and sits on it, setting the Head down by his side. “We will have to find Váli, soon, right? …or, well, he will soon try to find us, once he recovers from the poison. So go, rest up!”

Clever set up –the boy has a mischievous streak after all. Kratos guesses he should be thankful Atreus uses his cunning for this, rather than any real wrongdoing. Shaking his head, he leaves the three plus the Head to their own devices, and makes his way into the chamber Arkaios just disappeared into.

“I was wrong, you know?” the young Spartan says, without turning from where he’s leaning his side against a wall, his shoulders to Kratos, “The boy might actually be even less subtle than you are.”

Kratos actually lets out a low chuckle. “I have the feeling he was not trying to be.”

Taking a deep breath, Arkaios turns to face him. “How’s the wound?” he asks, gingerly bringing his hands up to undo the other's pauldron, seemingly to check the recently closed gash in his chest, but doesn’t get far –Kratos shoots both hands up to grab his wrists in an iron grip and keep them there.

“We should talk.”

The young warrior’s breath hitches in his throat as he lets Kratos tug him closer. “Should we?” he asks, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, “If you’re all healed up… I can think of better things to do.”

It takes a lot of Kratos’s strength and all of his self-control not to instantly give in to _that_ proposal.

“Arkaios, I…” he has to close his eyes when the younger man dips his head forward to rest it on his chest, “I do not know how it came to be, that I am given yet another chance at…” happiness? Love? “…this. But Atreus adores you, you have done more for me than anyone has ever cared to; and I… I want you to stay.” He finally settles for, relinquishing his hold on one of the other’s wrists in favor of gently pushing his fingers under his chin and lifting it, to make Arkaios look at him. “After all of this is over, too. With us —with _me_.”

“You just can’t say it, can you?” the young warrior teases, going on his very tip toes to touch his nose to Kratos’s, “For goodness’ sake, if you really want this… then _take_ it, like you mean it. _Say it_. You love m—”

Kratos’s lips pressing against his shut him up. It’s fast and unexpectedly gentle; and those lips are still very close to his own when Arkaios hears him whisper: “I do.”

When Arkaios finally laces his hands behind his neck and tugs Kratos down for a _proper_ kiss, it doesn’t feel foreign, nor does it feel sudden.

It feels decades overdue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. FINALLY!  
> I can hear cheering in the distance, like good God (of War)!  
> And this chapter would be where the first part of where the warning for violence comes in.  
> I mean, it isn't nearly as gory as some of the things I've written as a teenager, for the sake of proving how badass I was... but all things considered, we've already stuck our hands in a gaping wound in the World Serpent's neck to heal it, chopped an ogre's mouth apart, _and_ stabbed Arkaios's purpura with a knife and _burned_ it closed... all in all I'd say this is pretty fucking violent.  
>  It's the same as the warning for rape: there isn't any actual rape happening in the story, but it's implied throughout that in his past, Arkaios has been raped, coerced into sex, or a combination of the two, and has been left to pick up his own pieces alone, to boot.
> 
> Welp, this seems like a good time to change the topic and get some references!  
> First of all, the song! [Leei Leei by Litsa Diamanti](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_m440G0AdE) \- it doesn't quite sound as ancient as I wanted, but it had to be a cheesy love song for comedic effect and to make Kratos laugh. And keep him awake so he does not die of blood loss -Arkaios actually chooses his songs very carefully u.u  
> I can't find a translation for it and the google translation doesn't make any fucking sense, but the little I've gathered is that "leei" means "to say", ot "he says" or whatever, either way the chorus is something about this "him" saying he doesn't love the person singing at first and regretting it right after...  
> Sound familiar? ;)  
> [Self defence against a hair pull](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RcqS48phyAM&feature=youtu.be&t=5m23s) \- I started the link exactly on the move Arkaios does, but if you have like twenty minutes to spare and you're a woman that sometimes walks alone in places, it's worth watching to know and practice to. Just in case.  
> *And last but not least, who is the scholar that taught Arkaios about levers? [the one and only Archimedes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archimedes) \- considering the "man" who told Kratos stories was actually Aesop (all of the stories Kratos tells are his), it's entirely possible that in his travels outside of Sparta, Arkaios came across Archimedes, haha.  
> Welp, this is it, they finally said it!  
> We only have Váli to take care of now.  
> And by "take care of" I mean murder his stupid face! I haven't yet decided, but maybe I'll let the two lovebirds have a little fun before the Vengeful ass comes knocking.  
> Still up for debate tho.  
> Goddamn, I was _dying_ to write this in!
> 
> pls come say hi <3


	9. Warsong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was not kidding when he told Arkaios that Atreus adores him –the two get along well, both enthusiastic about knowledge and empathic to a fault – but he guesses that’s what he’s here for: protecting them and staying by their side when they’re not in control anymore.
> 
> Kratos bites back a smile –he could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, THIS chapter kicked my ass! Sorry for the long wait, but by popular demand we have an all-inclusive chapter: cuddles, a bit of sexytimes, humor AND a plot twist.  
> References at the bottom. <3

Kratos can taste the poison on the other’s mouth –it makes him grateful for the rigid training that made him immune: as of right now, even just the thought of not being able to kiss this man sounds worse than any kind of venom.

Arkaios is pliant under his lips and touch; and so, so warm. The one warm thing in this damned winter. He tugs him close, and the young warrior goes willingly.

Kratos can scarcely remember when he has last felt so compelled to _devour_ someone. Faye had been different –everything about her was gentle: despite how fierce of a fighter she was, behind closed doors she was softness, tranquillity, harmony… all the things Kratos thought himself incapable of being until meeting her.

 _This_ is raw, passionate and not at all unfamiliar. As he runs his hands down the sides of the other’s back, Kratos feels him catch his lower lip between his teeth and fights the urge to smirk –he should have known Arkaios would be a biter. Also perfectly willing to follow, yes, but not at all without initiative: Kratos feels on his mouth the hitch in the younger’s breath as his large hands end up resting on Arkaios’s backside; but he wasn’t expecting the smaller man to drag both hands to his shoulders and use the newfound leverage to pull himself up and hook those slender legs around his waist.

It spurs Kratos into movement; and he grabs the other firmly by the thighs, as he crosses the small chamber in three quick strides and all but slams Arkaios in the opposite wall. The young Spartan grunts at the impact, but the sound dissolves into a half-way between a chuckle and a moan that goes straight down Kratos’s body in a shiver of fire. Holding himself up by his legs and the leverage against the wall, Arkaios can let go of the other man’s shoulders and finally get the offending pauldron off the skin he so desperately wished to feel against his own.

The armor hits the ground with a solid thunk, while Kratos dips his head down to bite his way along the side of Arkaios’s neck –the young warrior’s nails sink into Kratos’s shoulder-blades in response to that, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. “Arms up.” He commands, relishing in the breathy laugh that ensues.

It is quite the feat to divest the figure in his lap from that position, but Arkaios’s armor, fur vest and tunic hit the floor soon enough. Both their waist guards are the next thing to go, and the first thing Kratos does, once he has unrestricted access to the younger man’s torso, is pull him further up and close, to leave a kiss on the sinewy burn scar he himself left there with the hot poker.

Arkaios gasps under his lips, scar tissue still tender and sensitive –the nails on his shoulders draw swift, hot lines as the young Spartan’s hands clench in reflex. Kratos mouths his way back up to the other’s clavicle, as his hands get busy on trying to undo his trousers, but doesn’t go further up than that.

“Kratos…” sweet mercy, his name has never sounded as good as it does when Arkaios barely even breathes it out, “Let me look at you.”

Hm. He hadn’t even realized he was hiding his face –old habits really do die hard, it would seem. He breathes in and out against Arkaios’s skin to steel himself, and then kisses his way up to finally meet his gaze.

“There you are.” The young warrior says, chancing a nibble at the very tip of his nose. “There you are.” He repeats, stubborn affection in his tone – _you don’t need to hide who you are, not from me–_ is what those eyes are actually saying. Then the smile on Arkaios’s face turns devious. “Now, are we going to get serious about this or not?” the question is punctuated by Arkaios purposefully bucking his hips against Kratos, which in turn has the man seeing red.

“Careful what you wish for.” He intimates in a low growl, before stepping back from the wall just enough to turn and fling Arkaios down on one of the bedrolls, following the fall along so that he is still on top of him, with the younger’s legs still hooked around his waist.

The impact is rough, but Arkaios laughs breathily through it, looking up at Kratos with a lick to his lips. “Finally!” He drags his hands from the older Spartan’s shoulders to the front and down his abdomen, pausing reverently on every scar, past and present, before reaching his prize. Kratos slams both forearms on the floor, at each side of Arkaios’s head, and catches his lips in a kiss once more.

In his life, Arkaios has had many not-so-gentle ‘lovers’, to use a disproportionately generous word, so he is used to being handled roughly… this, however, is the good kind of rough –everything, from the way Kratos is mouthing and nipping at him to the solid warmth he can feel, just a few annoying layers of cloth away, sets him further ablaze with thoughts of _yes, please_ and _now_.

He feels Kratos hesitate ever so slightly once they’re skin against skin, and takes it upon himself to correct this, grabbing the man’s hands and guiding them under his thighs. “You are not going to break me.” He says, decisive and powerful, looking at Kratos with the same fire that colours his hair whenever he stands against sunlight. He bites his lower lip, bucking his hips up again. “But you are welcome to try.” He adds, voice low but laced with intent, “Go on, _take me apart_. If you’re _capable_.”

Kratos feels himself ignite in such a way that not even his Spartan Rage can compare. “You will eat those words once I am through with you.” He growls into the younger warrior’s neck, eliciting another delicious groan from him.

“I’d much rather—ah— eat your lips.” He counters, voice stuttering as Kratos bites down again on his neck, harder this time –that one’ll leave a mark – “…or something else entirely.”

Not many people can say they have taunted Kratos like that and lived to tell the tale. But Arkaios just watches raptly, as Kratos sits back only slightly, to disentangle the chains still left around his arms and fling them to the side –now free to grab him by the hips and make good on his ‘threat’.

 

From the workshop, Atreus jumps at the loud noise of metal clanging to the floor, and is confused when it’s followed by… muffled laughter?

“Well!” Mimir exclaims loudly, trying to get Brok and Sindri’s attention, “Why don’t you lads entertain young Atreus here with some explaining of the workings of your fine tools?” another thump comes from the other chamber and the Head sincerely doesn’t want to know, “And demonstrate as well! The louder the better!”

Sindri has blanched, and hurries to find a tool noisy enough to not only drown the sounds, but hopefully wash the memory from his mind entirely –Brok, instead, just laughs heartily, but he does grab a hammer to start making noises. The boy isn’t stupid, he probably knows all too well what’s going on, but doesn’t need to _hear_ it. It’s worth preserving that one side of his innocence a little while longer. “Hah! Hopefully your pa will be a little less of a grump when he comes out of there, dun ya think?”

“Um…”

“Don’t answer that.” Sindri says, keeping close to the contraption he has just set to work, “In fact, don’t even think about that. Look at this!” he hurries Atreus along to look at the machinery, “This is how we get enough pressure going to temper the steel and make it harder than anything else in the realm!”

“Except maybe your pa right now.” Brok can’t help but say it – it was on a silver platter.

The clean-obsessed dwarf is scandalized by his brother’s uncouth jokes. “Not helping!”

Atreus has an inkling to what that meant, and Sindri is right –he would much rather talk machinery than think about… whatever it is his _father_ is doing in there. No thanks. He points to the first lever he sees. “So, Sindri, what does _this_ bit do?”

Sindri promptly launches himself in an enthusiastic explanation of his craft. Hopefully it will long-winded enough to outlast the two behind the doors –one can never tell, with Kratos’s seemingly bottomless endurance.

 

The room is a right mess by the time they are done coming apart in each other’s arms.

Kratos is lying on his back on the rumpled bedding, wearing only his pants and cradling Arkaios by the shoulders over his chest. He runs a hand through the dark auburn tresses he is coming to love, and dips his head forward slightly to inhale in their scent. “So… this is what it feels like…” he starts, “To have the haze lifted off your eyes and a weight off your heart.”

Feeling the other’s fingers carding affectionately through his hair, Arkaios smiles fondly, shifting up so he is entirely laying face-down on Kratos, chest to chest, so he can look the man in the eye. “I wouldn’t know…” he comments, smile turning ever so slightly cheeky, “I only remember the sex.”

Kratos chuckles, low and unrestrained and by all the Muses, dead or still living, does it feel good to hear the man actually _happy_ for once. “The things you say…”

“This is no laughing matter, I’m serious!” the younger Spartan protests, in a tone clearly not serious, “I think I forgot my own name.”

Flattering, to say the least, even if only said in good humor –Arkaios is an adult by all standards, but still a good deal younger than him. Kratos brings up both hands to the side of his lover’s face, finally able to stroke his thumb along those very much red and spent lips just because he wants to. “Arkaios…”

“Ah! There it is!” the Spartan pretends to just now get it back to his mind, as he dips forward to chance one small peck at Kratos’s lips. It makes the older man chuckle against them.

“What have I done to deserve you back in my life?”

Arkaios inhales and exhales deeply, resting his cheek against the other’s. “You survived. Against all odds, and you kept your heart.”

Kratos closes his eyes and squeezes him close at that.

They stay like that for a few moments, listening to nothing but each other’s breath, until eventually Arkaios speaks. “We should check on the others.”

“Probably. And make sure the dwarves haven’t permanently traumatized the Head.”

Feeling just a little guilty, the young Spartan chuckles. “That too.”

Atreus is asleep in a corner by the forge, as they step out of the room, probably lulled to close his eyes by Sindri’s incessant droning on, and Kratos is grateful to notice the two dwarves have amassed rags and torn curtains under and around the boy to make him warm and comfortable as he rests.

“There ya are! Got your shit together now?”

Brok’s voice is normally loud enough to wake the dead. That Atreus doesn’t is testament to how tired the poor boy must have been.

Kratos is content to ignore the dwarf's question altogether, in favor of sending a fond look at his son –Arkaios goes as far as kneeling at the boy's side and brushing a hand on his forehead.

"Poor baby... he must be exhausted." He whispers, looking up at Kratos, who nods and goes back to the other chamber, to retrieve the bedding that they have not used and carry it over to make Atreus more comfortable.

As he watches his lover go back with what he is sure must be the most stupidly love-struck expression on his face, Arkaios starts feeling eyes on his back and turns.

Sure enough, both dwarves and even Mimir seem to be studying quite intently. He blinks at them.

"...Yes?"

Sindri is the first one to crack. "So, uh... you really are… tougher… than you appear to be, huh?"

An appreciated compliment, but a bit out of nowhere. "Excuse me?"

"What he means is we dinnae expect you to be able to take it from the beefer over there and be walkin' so soon afterwards!" Brok, ever so blunt, spells it out for all of them.

Ah. It's a little unexpected that they would even want to know, but Arkaios can see how a figure as imposing as Kratos is would make people curious. He knows _he_ was, all through his younger years in the garrison, especially after that one time they stopped by a riverside to clean their weapons and themselves after a battle, and the leftover enemy forces tried to ambush them as they were bathing. That was a battle he wouldn't forget for many, many reasons.

Also, it was almost dawn when they came back from Helheim, and the day has broken quite a while ago now… not to mention that his hair must be a complete lost cause right now, and he has marks all over his neck –so yes, he can understand.

But they are all looking expectantly at him, and he cannot resist the urge to mess with them at least a little: "...and you are so sure I'm the only one who _'took it'_?"

It's worth the flabbergasted look on all their faces.

"…Surely you're joking, lad?" Mimir asks despite himself, his innate disposition for all kinds of knowledge making him at least morbidly curious.

"Possibly." Arkaios concedes, leaning forward and beckoning the dwarves closer, as if to tell them a secret. He places both hands down on the table, and lowers his voice... "I _don't_ kiss and tell, gentlemen."

With timing that could not have been more perfect if the two of them had staged it, Kratos comes back at that exact moment, with clean and warmer bedding to wrap Atreus in.

Knowing none of them, not even Brok, would have the guts to ask Kratos the same question, the young Spartan allows himself a laugh.

"What is it?" The man asks, even as he carefully tucks his son in to give him a proper sleep. Arkaios shakes his head minutely and moves to help him.

"I will tell you later." He assures with a quick kiss on the other's tattooed cheek.

Kratos's posture stiffens ever so slightly at the contact, but he doesn't shy away from it –it feels strange, to be on the receiving end of such open affection in front of other people... but then again, Brok and Sindri most likely know about them already by now and have proven to be trustworthy allies. The time where even the concept of having a loved one was perceived as a weakness is long gone.

"We should all gather our strength." He eventually says, as the noise of wind picks up slightly from outside, "A storm seems to be brewing. How long before Váli will come for us?"

Arkaios shrugs from where he's sat cross-legged at Atreus's side. "Hard to say." He admits, "If the hemlock takes the same time to wear off as it does from my lips…. or maybe less, considering he’s a God... it could happen tonight or tomorrow."

Kratos hums at that, taking Mimir and tying him back to his belt. "We will have to be prepared then."

The younger nods at him. "I say we let Atreus sleep it off, get some rest ourselves, and then take a few hours to make sure all of our weaponry is in top condition."

That's a sensible idea. But they just rolled out of a cot, Kratos doesn't think he'll fall asleep anytime soon. He doesn't have to ponder what to do for long, though, because he sees Arkaios pacing slowly back and forth, trying to make it seem like he's puttering about rather than actually fidgeting. Positioning himself behind the younger warrior as he turns, Kratos takes the chance to trap him within his arms. "You are restless."

"No I'm not." Comes too fast and in a too high pitch.

"Tell me what worries you."

Arkaios sighs. "It is not worry, really, I just..." Not quite meeting his lover's eyes, he drops his gaze to Mimir: "Mimir? Do you think we could talk to the World Serpent again? I don't know whether the spell I cast was strong enough..."

Not even Kratos can remain unmoved; and he bites back a smile. "I thought you were afraid of snakes."

"And I thought Mimir was the biggest thing to hang from your hips." The other quips, tart returning full force as he chances a quick lick at Kratos's lips –if only just to divert the embarrassment of having been caught _caring_ about the creature he supposedly wanted to stay away from –"Turns out we both were wrong."

The older man tries discreetly hard not to show how speechless the casual banter delivered with no care of who could hear them has made him. For one, neither of his previous partners ever talked to him like that: Lysandra had been raised on the obedience and demure respect women were subject to in Sparta, while Faye was simply not prone to suggestive humor, considering they had a child to raise. Then there's the fact that, apparently, it doesn't stop once they're outside of the sheets. Which is a whole new level of unexplored for Kratos.

He doesn't quite know what to reply to that, but thankfully Mimir is never without something to say, especially if to jump away from a mildly disturbing topic:

"Well! Jörmungandr will be happy to have another friend. You've got yourself a heart of gold, lad! "

"I wouldn't go that far. It still terrifies me." Arkaios objects, mildly uncomfortable at the Head's praise, "...and my heart is far from golden."

After all, someone who has fought and served under Kratos before and after his ascension is bound to have quite the bloody trail behind themselves.

"Aye, maybe you're right, lad..." Mimir concedes, sending him a knowing look, "Still, your hands don't have to be clean for your heart to be good."

 _Or better than it was before_ , goes unsaid but runs through Kratos's mind. He has to give it to Mimir, he has brought up far more wisdom and counsel than Kratos could have ever expected -or rather, much more of it than he anticipated has actually been good.

"Let us go, then." Kratos eventually says, turning to the dwarves with a warning expression: "Keep watch."

Sindri nods frantically, and even Brok sobers up –the man might not be as scary with his back and shoulders covered in tell-tale scratches and bites, but they both know that, if anything were to happen on Atreus under their watch, Kratos would waste no time in reminding them what exactly he uses all the weaponry he buys from them for.

 

The horn resounds in the air, and Jörmungandr stirs from his slumber. This time, Arkaios is prepared for it, but it still freezes his knees in place to see the massive creature lower its snout until he is close enough to converse with them... the difference is that, instead of unconsciously grasping at Kratos's arm for support for the only ideal of safety he ever had, now Arkaios can just hold out his hand to the side; and his lover will be there to take it and give him real reassurance.

He still covertly jumps at the Serpent's bellowing voice booming in the air, calling to Mimir –and doesn't miss how it makes Kratos's face twitch with hidden amusement.

"As I said, lad. Jörmungandr is happy to see you." The beast doesn't look at its best yet, head slightly tilted to keep the still-healing part of his scales out of the water. "He inquired about the boy, I told him he's safe."

A thought makes its way suddenly through Kratos's mind: he was so worried about Atreus being safe that he had never thought about the loneliness of being only the two of them... now, though, it would appear the boy has a whole mess of extended family –and at least _one_ stepfather. That the World Serpent feels for the child enough to ask about him is telling of how far they've come; and more importantly, it's telling of how much Atreus is capable of gaining the hearts of all those around him –which definitely comes from his mother's side, considering what an absolute disaster Kratos is at socializing.

"Ask him how the wound is feeling, if he is in any pain."

The way Mimir has to speak to converse with Jörmungandr will never not be amusing –now that he is calmer and less scared for his life, Arkaios can allow himself a smile.

"Eh, he says it's sore all right, but much better than it used to be." The Head relays, "He's thankful."

Tentatively, Arkaios takes a small step forward. "Tell him I am glad that he will be fine, and ask him if he would... come closer to the edge, just for a moment."

"You want to check how well along it's healing? Sure I'll tell him."

"Well I—" Arkaios is not fast enough in his protest, and before he knows it the World Serpent has tipped his head down once more, muzzle along the edge of the bridge and neck wound in sight.

It’s healing well, there is almost no trace of red between the scales anymore. Unconsciously, Arkaios exhales in relief. He hesitates, but takes a tentative step forward… then two. He doesn’t quite notice Kratos pushing him along with a hand behind his shoulders until he’s at the very edge of the platform and Jörmungandr is within arm’s reach.

The young warrior is suddenly paralysed, not quite over his fear yet and unable to look directly at the massive mouth hovering very close.

“Come on.” Kratos’s voice startles him; and the man leaning slightly outwards makes him even more nervous –until he realizes what exactly Kratos is doing. “I know you want to. I will go first.”

“Kratos please—” Arkaios nearly covers his eyes as the other extends an arm forward, already imagining it severed from his lover’s body in one swift clench of teeth. But the only thing that happens is the rumble of the Serpent’s breath, as it relaxes under the touch on the very tip of his muzzle.

“See?” Mimir is literally speechless, he has never heard Kratos sound so gentle with anyone that wasn’t his son. “You are safe.”

Ever so slowly, Arkaios joins the man in petting Jörmungandr’s snout, and they both pat the creature gently until their hands brush one over the other and they pause in place. Kratos cannot remember when was the last time someone touched his hands like that without fear; and he looks down into Arkaios’s dark eyes.

“Oh, you two are so sweet it’s almost gross.”

Both men jump apart at the sound of Atreus’s voice. Laughing innocently, the boy skips his way to Jörmungandr and warmly ‘hugs’ what he can of the creature’s snout, just before it retreats to go rest comfortably along the side of the lake.

Evidently, the boy has woken up, and upon asking where they were, the dwarves pointed him to here –Kratos would be mad at them for letting Atreus wander alone, but the Temple of Tyr is about as safe as can be.

“Hello there!” Arkaios says, “Did you rest well?”

Atreus briefly closes his eyes at the pat on his head and then chances a look sideways –the downside to going shirtless all the time is that everyone always knows what happened to your chest. He has to bite back a giggle. “I did. Probably better than _you_.”

Kratos nearly slaps a hand over his face at that, but settles for just humming and getting started on the way back. The other two share a look before following slightly behind. A strange silence stretches for a couple of seconds before Arkaios eventually speaks:

“Atreus… are you upset with me?”

The boy blinks at the rather sudden question. “Why would I be?”

“Because I’m…” okay, Arkaios can concede that talking about relationships with kids s not exactly comfortable, especially if you’re personally involve. He won’t actually criticize Kratos about that anymore.

“…doing... _stuff_ , with my father?” blunt, boy. Too much time with Brok, possibly. “Why would that make _me_ upset?”

“ _Spending time_ with him.” The Spartan corrects, with a cough. “Time that was previously completely concentrated on you.”

Atreus huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah, that’s a… more recent development than you think.” He doesn’t resent his father for having a hard time in learning how to be there for him, not anymore, but still… he wasn’t exactly pampered. “Honestly, I’m just happy that you both are happy.”

Those words make Arkaios’s chest swell up. “Child…” here’s the one true heart of gold in all of Midgard –seriously, Arkaios has not known Atreus very long, but this sweet, sweet boy must be cherished and protected until the end of days. “I just… taking place by your father’s side… I wouldn’t want you to think I am trying to…”

Oh. Oooh. That’s a strange thought. “…replace mother?”

“Exactly. I wouldn’t dream of it.” The other says, “I hold nothing but respect for the woman who gave birth and raised a boy bright as you are, and I would never—”

“Hey.” Atreus stops that chain of thought before it start, “I know. You are nice. I have been trying _so hard_ to get my father to finally tell you he likes you too, why would you think I’d do that, if I would be upset at the thought of you two together?”

“Oh, child— wait what? Since when?” There you go, Arkaios, that’s what you get for assuming the one little child in the picture is absolutely innocent and can hold no secrets.

Atreus’s face takes on a slightly mischievous smile. “Oh, the morning after I was hurt.” He says casually, “You’re not very subtle.”

The choice of words makes the Spartan laugh in return. “You’re sneakier than you let on!”

“Well, yeah.” The boy concedes that point, “But I do like you, and I want you to stay with us.” He assures, taking Arkaios’s hand as they enter the Temple again, “I’m… at peace with my mother’s passing. And I’m fine with not having a mother anymore… but hey—I get to have two fathers now. And _that_ is pretty amazing.”

Such a pure sentiment –Arkaios had never even entertained the _idea_ of ever being a father, convinced he wouldn’t live long enough to… then the truth about his mother came out and he realized his lifespan is theoretically longer than most… still, he’d always figured he’d die in battle before having any children, especially considering how unlikely it would be for him to take a _wife_. Yet this boy, this precious, bright light in the middle of such a harsh world, is readily accepting him as a second father, just like that.

It’s too much. Arkaios scoops Atreus up in a hug and lifts him off the ground.

“Woah—” left with little choice, Atreus grabs on with a laugh.

“Hush. Let me have this.” The Spartan shushes him, just barely poking his side.

Kratos only throws a look behind himself to see what the commotion was about –what he sees makes his heart feel so warm he barely remembers at all it is winter.

 

Once they’re back in the workshop, Arkaios starts digging through his things –the whole misadventure in Helheim left him depleted of supplies. “We should take the boat…” he says, finally running his hands through the mess that is his hair and ties it back loosely -fully aware that it will drive Kratos insane until the man will do it himself. "I'm all out of my root extract... the poison I can do without, but with all due respect for your magical green stones, I would still prefer to also have my own magic ingredients. There's only so much I can do on voice alone."

That's as good an endeavour as anything else, and being well supplied is always high on a warrior's priority list.

Which is how they find themselves sailing along the river again, to get to the shore where the sweet-smelling dark plants grow.

"So... Arkaios." Atreus starts, and Kratos already knows where this is going, "Do you have any stories to pass the time? Father's are... well..."

The young Spartan looks at his lover with a knowing expression. "You haven't been telling Aesop's stories to the boy, have you?"

Kratos is silent.

"You have." Arkaios doesn't know whether to find it endearing or funny, "My love, the boy is past the age those stories would actually teach him anything new!"

The man's eyes shoot up at the endearment the other just used, seemingly without even realizing it. The way Atreus's gaze shifts back and forth between them tells Kratos he's not the only surprised one, but Arkaios carries on:

"I do have a story for you, Atreus. And your father is in it." There are many stories about him that Arkaios could tell. Some are horrible, some not so much. "One day, on the path back to our encampment after a long and exhausting battle, we ran into a Lamia."

"Arkaios..."

The damage is done. Atreus is hooked and wants to know more. "What is a Lamia?"

"It's a sort of lady witch. Very deadly, sometimes eats men's souls. But only men, never women!"

"Why is that?"

"Because men are easier to entice into bed, where they will be more vulnerable." Kratos actively shoots out a hand to try and muffle Arkaios's mouth, but the younger warrior just swats it away. "Careful! You don't want to send us all into the freezing water now, do you?"

"Still, that is no story for—"

"Of course it is! It teaches you not to trust things that are too good to be true and rely on your friends instead, it's a great story!"

"Arkaios, I swear—"

"True, but not _nearly_ as much as you used to. Fatherhood really cleaned you up." There's just no winning with this one, is it? "As I was saying. We run into this Lamia. Very powerful. And the men are all exhausted –your namesake, Atreus, was carrying one of our wounded on his back... and the Lamia says we're trespassing and that she demands retribution for such a slight."

"Oh no!" The boy is quite literally on the edge of his seat, "So what did father do?"

Arkaios looks back at Kratos, clearly still treasuring the memory. "Well." He says, "Like the great commander he was, he wouldn't let a witch just take the lives of his men. So he offers her a deal: He alone will pay retribution for trespassing, and she can choose the payment."

"Oh boy. It did not end well, did it?" That would depend on who you ask. Kratos tries to interfere again.

"Do you not have any other story—"

"What did I say about rocking the boat? You stay there!" Arkaios is not deterred in the slightest, "So, the Lamia looks your father up and down and decides she has a payment in mind indeed."

Atreus scrunches up his nose. "Ew."

"Precisely. So, she takes all of us hostage in her lair, only to be released once she is... done with _him_."

"And she would let you go just like that?"

"That's what she tried to have us believe, yes." The Spartan explains, voice already betraying a hint of laughter as to what comes next, "Truth is, while she was... distracting your father, her minions were creeping up on us to try and steal all of our souls!" The boy's exclamation of "no!" is even cuter than usual, especially with Kratos trying to find ways to shush him, "But your father noticed the ruse, and—"

"That is enough!" Kratos tries shutting him up by splashing water at him with the oar.

It doesn't work. Arkaios flinches and his voice stutters with laughter at the splash, but he carries on. "H-he notices, and he storms out of the Lamia's chambers—"

"Arkaios, I'm warning you—" this time Kratos's hands reach out to grab at him, but Arkaios just catches his wrists as they both kind of just flail about, the boat rocking but not giving up on them yet.

"—wearing only the chains around his arms and the blades in his hands—" the unrestrained laughter coming from both his son and his lover is starting to affect the usually stoic and impassive man.

"I saved all your hides!” he protests, feeling the beginnings of a laugh in his chest, “What difference does it make that I did it unclothed?"

At this point, Kratos has stopped trying to hide his own amusement.

"It makes a difference, because the Lamia's dying words were of regret at not getting to _keep_ you longer."

Atreus laughs hard enough to knock into Arkaios's side. "Okay, that is funny. Gross, but funny." He says, while recovering, "But where's the part about trusting friends?"

"Oh that? That would be me." The Spartan says, "I knew it was a trap straight away."

"Really? How?"

"Before striking the deal, the Lamia circled menacingly around all of us –except me." He explains, "You see, I was the youngest in the garrison at the time, short and skinny enough to be mistaken for a woman. She had no intention of harming _me_ , I was to be the only survivor and _join_ them. I tried to tell him, dissuade him from going, but no." Kratos once more starts struggling, trying to find the balance between not flinging them all into the water and actually stopping the mortifying tale, "He— stop it!— he was _so_ sure he was right and that the Lamia would be… satisfied, with just him. I mean... there's knowing your strengths and then there's falling for an obvious ruse—"

"That is _it_ —"

"You might want to brace, little brother!"

Upon Mimir's advice, Atreus sinks low, grabs onto the edge of the bench with one hand and the rope holding the Head with the other. Kratos lunges forward with his weight, and with Arkaios being so much smaller than he is, the outcome is very predictable.

The splash rocks the boat, but the boy is safe. Arkaios is the first one to emerge, still laughing.

"You bastard!" He remarks at Kratos, once he sees him remerge, "It's freezing!"

"You asked for it." Is all the other answers, voice a low growl but a smile -a real smile!- on his face. At this moment, Atreus thinks that even falling in the water would have been worth it. He watches father help Arkaios back into the boat, hoisting him up by the hips, and can still hear the low chuckles as the Spartan pulls him up.

To be fair, Kratos himself can scarcely believe this. He is, for lack of a better definition, having _fun_. He can't remember the last time something has ever been 'fun' for him. Even after Atreus's birth, maybe especially so, he's always been so focused on survival that he forgot anything else. Add that up to the deep-rooted self-loathing that also made him convinced he was unworthy of feelings such as _joy_...

Yes, he hadn't laughed like this in a while.

"Well... thanks for that." Arkaios grumbles, tone still betraying some amusement as he wrings out his hair. "You win this round... but turn your back one time and I'll fill your son's head with all sorts of goofy stories."

Kratos raises an eyebrow at him. "Not one time in my life was I ever... _goofy_."

The answer is just a playful smirk and a wink. "That _you_ know of."

Atreus thinks back to the one time his dad thought the Giants all had to actually _be_ giant to be considered such; and he giggles slightly. Kratos gives up, saying no more.

They manage to reach the shore without further incident, as Kratos is simply content to watch his son try and teach Arkaios a Norse song; and they're still sort of singing it while Arkaios picks out some healing herbs and Atreus points to one more of those they've come to call health-stones, for short.

He was not kidding when he told Arkaios that Atreus adores him –the two get along well, both enthusiastic about knowledge and empathic to a fault. Both of them are easily overpowered by emotions –Kratos remembers clearly Arkaios’s first kill and how unhelpful he was in helping him deal with it– but he guesses that’s what he’s here for: protecting them and staying by their side when they’re not in control anymore.

“That’s good!” he hears Atreus exclaim, “You have a funny accent, but that’s it!”

Kratos bites back a smile –he could get used to this.

Then his keen ears catch onto the sound of growling just beyond the treeline. His smile evaporates from his face; and all of them get on their guard.

“Atreus, step away and take aim.” Arkaios whispers, feeling much more at ease once the boy is closer to his father as the growling gets closer and closer.

A massive wolf reveals its presence, bigger than any wolf the Spartan had ever seen, and it pounces on Arkaios. Funnily enough, it doesn’t bite or maul him –instead it starts to change forms, still hovering menacingly over the young Spartan’s body, revealing ashen blond hair and beard, and a very familiar face.

“Missed me, whore?”

Váli.

Kratos doesn’t waste time in lunging forward and slamming his shoulder into the Lesser God’s chest to get him off Arkaios. Váli just laughs as they get back up together and exchange a quick look, silently telling each other to get ready.

“Looks like you should thank me, old man!” their attacker sneers clenching and unclenching his fists in anticipation, “Finally staked your claim, did you?”

Kratos feels his jaw lock up in anger, but doesn’t take the bait. “Believe what you wish. If it is a fight you want, a fight you will have.”

From just a few feet behind them, Atreus tenses his arms all the way to full draw, exhales deeply and shoots.

It starts now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NN2zdqAFDFc) was the reference for the entire first part. Like, if it was an in-game cutscene, it would have this in the background... especially the drums picking up when Kratos starts slamming Arkaios around on walls and floors and they get a bit chaotic and out of control.  
> The slow part would be them cuddling in the bedsheets and talking, because they're cute like that.
> 
> Also. So many dick-jokes. And so many more that I have tastefully avoided, truly, a test of my restraint. Brok is all of us. And Sindri, you precious precious man. You're adorable. <3  
> Atreus SINCERELY does NOT want to know, not for another couple of years at the very least -but he will still jump at the chance to sass his father now that he isn't afraid to be abandoned at the slightest backtalk anymore.
> 
> And finally, I made it a point to make them look for healthstones as well, because they're a thing in the game and it's much more instantaneous than anything Arkaios can come up with... Arkaios's method is less physically taxing (for the wounded, it's pretty harsh on him) and possibly better in the long run, but in the heat of battle a healthstone can make the difference between life and death -and don't even get me started on Resurrection stones, however "rarer" they are, They both are *in* the game, and they are faster and more battle efficient, so of course Kratos and Atreus are going to introduce Arkaios to them.  
> There's still a reason and a peculiarity to Arkaios's healing voice that makes it different from a healthstone.  
> You'll see.  
> Next chapter it 'll be the big freaking battle. And then we have an epilogue.  
> I'll try to write fast but a battle spanning an entire chapter will take lots of focus for me to write it properly.  
> So give or take a week at least.  
> Sorryfor the cliffhanger, and see you all soon! <3  
> Hopefully this was worth the wait! <3


	10. Come what may

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sight of Kratos breathing hard and bleeding from the temple is enough to make Arkaios decide.
> 
> He starts singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait. Life kicked my ass, work family and other things coming at me all at once.  
> But no one wants to hear about that!  
> This chapter kicked my ass too though. XD  
> It's much shorter than I originally intended, but my hands wll not let me change it anymore -and I have this thing where basically I'm writing entirely on instinct, just letting my fingers run until they don't anymore.  
> So, there.  
> I hope it makes up for the wait. ♥

Atreus's arrow is fast, but Váli was anticipating it and is faster. He dodges out of the way and throws his arms out shouting an incantation that makes creatures sprout out of the ground and attack them.

This is uncomfortably familiar.

The Vengeance God is smiling with a deranged look, though his expression falters when he sees how easily his puppets fall against the Leviathan Axe.

"You were right, boy!" Kratos tells his son, "They are brittle compared to those invoked by the rightful owner. Aim for the head and spare no more than one hit for each of them!"

Still, it's an awful lot of undead vine creatures. They are surrounded soon enough, and Váli takes advantage of his numbers to try and single out Kratos by attacking him while both son and lover are fighting for their own lives.

The first hit of hammer against axe shakes the ground –the Blades of Chaos are excellent killing weapons, but not designed for parrying.

“Careful, brother!” Mimir warns, taking up his usual role in battle: warning Kratos about whatever assaults him from his otherwise blind spots.

Now that he's fighting Váli at full power, Kratos can concede that the young God is strong indeed, with a speed rivalling Baldur's. But even he fell in the end.

With the corner of his eye he sees Atreus struggle with fending off the four creatures around him, while Arkaios is just about getting himself out of a corner as well. "Atreus!" He calls, able to tell what the younger Spartan was about to do, "Fire on my mark!"

The boy turns just in time to see Arkaios slide out under a monster's legs and then leaping off its back to throw his dagger on the ground among the creatures surrounding him. " _Now_!" His father shouts, while rolling out of one of Váli's hits, and Atreus fires.

" _Galti atrás_!" His arrow ricochets off the blade, but the contact with metal makes the shockwaves stronger and their range wider; and the lightning boars stampede over all four of Atreus's enemies, crackling and burning them to the ground.

Arkaios manages to land just after the last of the lightning is gone. "Good job!"

It makes the boy smile whenever his efforts are recognized, even in the heat of battle. He dashes until he is by Arkaios's side to help him fend off the monsters and try keeping them off father's back –the Spartan dances his way among the closer ones, swinging and throwing his dagger every which way, while he fires at the faraway ones, drawing their attention from father's exposed side as he fights Váli, matching him blow for blow.

The problem with an enemy that can summon creatures from the very ground, though, is that there doesn't seem to be an end to them. Atreus has long ran out of arrows, so now his fire rate is delayed from having to collect them off the bodies or the ground; and more often than not the boy is improvising the bow as a melee weapon to choke enemies out until Arkaios can strike them down. Kratos himself has his hands quite full with keeping creatures off his back while also fighting the God of Vengeance.

Quite ironic, all things considered.

"Is this all you've got?!" Váli growls, grabbing at Kratos's hands after an axe throw that missed by a mere hair, "How did you ever manage to best Baldur? I was promised a _monster_ ; yet I find myself fighting an _old man_! Or did you run out of energy fucking your little friend?" Kratos knows all too well Váli is just trying to distract him, but poking at a fresh and newly vulnerable side gets under the skin of even someone like him. His fists clench harder as Váli keeps taunting him in hisses: "Tell me; does the fact that _he too_ could very well be your son bother you? Or is _that_ what you get off on? Do you get off on the thought of fucking little boys, is that it?"

That one has Kratos blind with rage –to even think that makes the Spartan want to grind Váli into dust for even suggesting such a notion. Kratos growls low as he kicks his opponent in the chest, up an over his head, only to be rushed by two more creatures with vine-like arms while Váli takes the time to recover –he tears both monsters apart with a few well-placed swigs of his Blades, furious gaze zeroing in on Váli.

"You have spoken your last words." Fists clenched, he rushes at his enemy and just starts dishing out punches.

From his side of the battle, Arkaios bites the inside of his mouth. This is going nowhere fast. Sure they robbed Váli of control over the dead but he apparently used the time they spent doing that to grow to his full strength, so now he and Kratos seem to be evenly matched.

They'll burn each other out –even Atreus knows it as they exchange a look. The boy is incredibly proficient in battle; not surprising, considering who trained him, but still the way Atreus uses his bow as leverage to choke and yank back the creature that was about to claw at the Spartan's side and leaving ample room for Arkaios to stab it in the face is nothing short of masterful.

Even so, Atreus is young and relatively new at fighting for prolonged amounts of time.

"We need to get closer to Kratos!" He tells the boy, and no other explanation is needed.  They leap through vines and monsters to get closer to the two duelling gods; and the sight of Kratos breathing hard and bleeding from the temple is enough to make Arkaios decide.

He starts singing.

_“_ _Vilja tit lýða og ljóð geva mær, eg bróti av bragdartátti  
Kongur ráddi for Nøríki, hann tógva synir átti…”_

It's the song Atreus has been teaching him, Kratos recognizes it, but he's confused. He knew his voice also has a slight effect even without the root extract as an activator, but none of his wounds are severe enough to warrant expending his energy mid-battle.

Then he feels the soreness lift from his arms and the Blades in his hands flare brighter; and he understands.

 _“_ _Rennur og rennur foli mín_  
Grønari grund og vín bar reyða lund  
Stíg at dansa stund  
Kátur leikar foli mín  
Á grønari grund…”

Mimir is speechless. Of course! If there is not much to heal, the songs moves onto the little things –and if Arkaios can keep this up long enough, Kratos will have a definite advantage on Váli: fighting like he's only just getting into battle while his enemy eventually will feel the toll of the fight.

_“_ _Átt hevur hann sær tógva synir, báðar kann eg væl nevna  
Magnus og hann Torstein jall, teir kunna væl dreingjum stevna…”_

Arkaios is still holding his own against the creatures surrounding them, even while singing, but the real lynchpin in the young Spartan's plan is Atreus: his stamina also restored by the battle song, the boy has started, for lack of a better word, protecting Arkaios: watching his back when something tries to sneak on him from behind, shooting his arrows at anything trying to get too close, sending a stampede of lightning boars when three of the creatures try to rush the Spartan on Váli's unspoken command.

"Shut up, you stupid bitch!!!" Váli shouts, eventually deciding to eliminate the advantage instead of trying to take them all at once.

All the creatures left focus their attention on one target.

"Boy!"

"On it!"

Atreus fires his boars in front of Arkaios while Kratos sends his blades out in a long swipe, but still some of the monsters, however brittle, manage to get past and rush the Spartan, who is forced to stop singing as he leaps back... right into Váli's grabbing range.

Had he been at the top of his strength, Arkaios could have snapped the offending fingers before they even properly closed around his hair; but he has given most –If not all– of his strength to Kratos and Atreus and is, as such, little more than a ragdoll in a god's hands.

"I would bargain your surrender for this whore's life..." Váli says, as a clawed creature walks up to his side, ready to strike should Kratos try to attack, "...but I'll just make you watch as I have him torn to shred. You'll be easy enough to kill afterwards."

"No!!!" Atreus draws his bow, but vines shoot from the ground to trap his arms.

For one moment, much like back on the mountain, everything is still.

Kratos wonder if it is his punishment for the life he lead in the past, to have to see the death of anyone he ever loves.

Váli's voice is full if cruel satisfaction: "Tear his heart _out_."

Atreus squeezes his eyes closed, tears coming out at the thought of being so close and unable to help.

But nothing happens.

The creature is still, and only Arkaios's shallow breaths break the silence. All of the vine-covered monsters are still.

Mimir is the first to piece it together: "Freya?"

Sure enough, a bird flies for a loop overhead before landing not too far from Kratos.

"You..." he starts, not even knowing what to say, but she silences him with a gesture.

"Don't. I still want you suffering a fate worse than death. I'm not here for you, or any other poor bastard who has the misfortune of being by your side." The Goddess says, turning towards Váli with crossed arms, "I'm here for him."

"I thought you would favor his revenge." Kratos is confused, despite not wanting to question the blessing that her timely arrival has been, he needs to know if there will be even more to fight.

"Váli is _not_ my son, and his revenge _isn't worth shit_." She takes a step forward, and the clawed creature circles to Váli's other side. "You're fighting on stolen power, child. It's time to give it back."

A snap of her fingers, and the creature reaches out to rip a runestone that Váli had concealed just under the skin of his shoulder.

Seeing a perfect opportunity, Arkaios gathers what's left of his strength, puts one hand over the one still tangled in his hair, and swings his dagger with the other.

Kratos always did tell him he would have to make a choice eventually.

He topples forward and rolls as much away from Váli as he can as the God cries out in pain from the ripping under his flesh, now clutching only a fistful of red hair.

The bonds on Atreus dissolve, as do most of the creatures, and both boy and father are by the Spartan's side in seconds.

"Arkaios! Talk to me." Kratos pleads, pleads, as he cradles the younger's neck with both hands -he is only relieved when he hears the other's tired chuckle.

"Not gonna have... much of a braid now..."

Of course that'd be the first thing Arkaios says. "I do not care, so long as you are safe."

Dizzily, the young Spartan caresses Kratos's cheek in a whisper: "Left flank..."

"What?"

" _Left flank_!!!" This time, Arkaios does speak out and spring to action, roughly shoving Kratos and bringing himself up to his knees, just enough that he is now where the older Spartan was, his back turn to Váli's morphed claws -the young warrior has made himself Kratos's shield just as the Vengeance God growled out a last ditch attack, morphing his hand in a wolf's paw and hissing "You _won't_ take his from me!"

Kratos feels like he stopped breathing the moment he heard the squelch of his lover's flesh being pierced. "Arkaios... what– what have you done?"

Once more a mirror of their meeting on the mountain, now it's Arkaios the one gripping the other by the biceps, kneeling upright but chest to chest in a rigid, adrenaline-induced posture.

Atreus breaks the spell, grabbing his discarded arrows with a running start and firing at Váli with the kind of deadly precision only desperate fury can give.

Váli is staggered back by an arrow to the neck first –"You like wolves? Try this on for size!!!" and by a lightning wolf leaping at him again and again next.

Forcefully separated by his attacker, Arkaios is jostled backwards and falls to the side while Kratos scrambles to try and assess the damage.

" _Arkaios_. Arkaios, I— I— what do I do?"

"Kratos..." the younger sputters slightly as he feels blood build up in his mouth and turns to the side to cough some, "I'll... be fine." He assures, no matter that he felt something shatter in his back and the lull of sleep is very tempting right now. He needs Kratos to be focused, for all their sakes. "Protect Atreus." He carries on, placing his hand over his lover's and leaning up just enough to brush their lips together: "...and kill that fucker."

Nodding, Kratos gets up and does the only thing he can do.

Freya is unable to fight and will not assist them, but at least she stripped Váli of the stolen magic that gave him an edge in this and is now working fast in dissolving any stragglers and sending the magic back into the earth; so Kratos doesn't have to worry about flank attacks anymore and can charge at Váli with everything he has.

It's a flurry of blades, bare punches, screams and blood, but by the end of it Kratos is indeed standing over Váli's tired and by all means defeated body.

"That... _that's_ it..." the fallen God chokes out, "This is what I had been looking for..." he gurgles out a laugh, even as Kratos turns him to face upwards with a kick, "You really are... a monster..."

It's not new to hear those words. Many people called him that in his past and present. What disturbs Kratos into stillness is the fact that Váli says them with something akin to admiration in his voice. He hesitates –the enemy is defeated, not a threat. He could walk away. Tend to Arkaios and his wounds. Yes, that's what he will do. He disregards Váli's comment and moves to turn.

" _Fool_! You delude yourself if you think you can be better than this!" The Vengeance God yells, trying to get up and charge once more, "You are _nothing_ but the murder you sow! You—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence, because an arrow embeds itself right between his eyes, silencing him and his cries for revenge forever.

"That's my father you're talking shit about."

Atreus lowers his bow with a decisive huff, and exchanges a look with Kratos –relief is a short lived thing, though, as they both rush again to Arkaios's side.

Kratos cannot remember the last time he cried, but he might come close to it now.

Feeling the man's hands cradle his neck and lifting him up, Arkaios weakly raises a hand to touch his lover's cheek.

"I have you." Kratos says, "I have you..." he sounds less and less sure of himself, "You— it will be fine— you will tell me what to do..."

"Take care of Atreus..." the breathless plea is almost enough to choke a sob out of Kratos, while the boy refuses to stand by and let it happen. He places a health-stone by Arkaios's side and destroys it with a foot, but it's not enough: Arkaios spasms and coughs up more blood, the other two can see some of the minor cuts and bruises on his face recede, but Kratos has to know.

Trying to be as careful and gentle as possible, Kratos lifts his lover up by the armpits so that Arkaios's forehead is leaning on his own chest.

Five jagged puncture wounds dot the middle of the Spartan's shoulder-blades, blood flowing out and downwards in a mercilessly steady flow, already soaking through the tunic and staining the fur vest as well.

"I need--" Kratos has always been too used to being able to power through his own wounds. The realization that he has no idea how to heal someone hits him like a boulder -never healing, always killing. He really is nothing but murder. Knows nothing but murder.

No. That is not true, not anymore. "I need you to stay awake for me, Arkaios..." he remembers that one time in Helheim, when the bird's talons puncturing through his muscles and bones should have killed him but didn't. "You can still fight. Please, _please_ stay awake... I need you to... I need you..."

Desperate, he glances around himself. The stone Atreus broke for him bought them some time, but it stands to fact that Arkaios is bleeding out in his arms. For the first time in his life, Kratos is _pleading_.

Freya glances coldly at him.

"Now you know a _shred_ of what I felt when everything was taken from me." She gestures towards Atreus, pointing at his backpack, "You can try using another health-stone, but it probably still won't save him. The punctures  are deep and his ribs may be shattered. You're probably just prolonging his agony. I couldn't save him if I wanted."

With those as her only parting words, Freya morphs back into a bird and flies away, the only traces of her a feather on the ground and the withered carcasses of the magic Váli had stolen.

"Kratos..." Arkaios's hand is painfully weak as it travels up to the nape of the older man's neck and he tries to get his head up enough to meet Kratos at eye-level, "...kiss me."

Atreus clenches his small fists, hating the feeling of helplessness that pervades him, as he watches his father shakes his head.

" _No_..." he mutters, voice broken by unshed tears, "You get yourself better. Survive. Then you will have earned a kiss."

"You always were... such a demanding leader..."

Even Mimir feels his non-existent heart break at the scene. "Come on lads, there has to be something we can do!"

Atreus wishes dearly it could be so. He thinks and thinks and thinks, until his fingernails break the skin of his palms and he feels the warmth of blood.

Wait a moment... blood!

Scrambling to grab the stone, the boy kneels beside Arkaios and grabs his hand. "Arkaios! Arkaios you can't give up now, I need you to sing!"

"It... it doesn't work... like that, child..." the Spartan tries to return the squeeze of fingers, but it's barely there. "...not on myself..."

"You _have_ to sing, please!" Atreus presses on, holding the stone up to the other's chest with his free hand. "It's for father! He's hurt and he will die if you don't sing!"

Sneakier than he looks, indeed. Technically, Kratos is feeling very much hurt right now, and a part of him will undoubtedly die if Arkaios does. The boy has noticed as Kratos himself is realizing now that, during the fight, the battle song influenced not only their bodies, but their weapons as well. So at a fuller understanding and in a broader sense, the song has an effect not only on people, but on anything with a spark of magic. If they can get Arkaios to sing to the stone, the runic magic could become powerful enough to make it go from health-stone to the rarer and more powerful resurrection stone. It could also just completely drain the Spartan, but considering he will die all the same if they do nothing, it's still worth a shot.

"Please, Arkaios." Kratos pleads again, unashamedly. "Sing for me..."

Atreus squeezes his hand tightly, adding his own plea. "Please..."

Arkaios takes a deep breath.

_“_ _Rennur og rennur foli mín…”_

He's enough out of it that he doesn't know that Kratos is not actually hurt, which is actually the crux of Atreus's plan: as long as the Spartan doesn't know it will be for him, the magic should activate, tricking itself thanks to the stone acting as a medium between the song and the person to be healed.

_“Grønari grund og vín bar reyða lund  
Stíg at dansa stund…”_

Both father and son hold their breath as the health-stone starts to glow. It becomes more and more powerful, until it's practically vibrating in the boy's hand; and Atreus nods at his father.

"You're doing great, Arkaios." Kratos whispers, gently laying his now delirious lover down to give his son proper access to work his literal magic. "Just a little more..."

_“Kátur leikar foli mín  
Á grønari grund…”_

Swiftly, Atreus places the stone over Arkaios's chest, draws the rune with the tip of his knife and then shatters it. "Please, please work!"

Arkaios arches up with a gasp, almost clean off the ground. He spasms for a few seconds, unable to do anything but open and close his mouth while Kratos tries to support him in his arms, before eventually slumping into the man's arms with an exhausted intake of breath.

Kratos knows he probably shouldn't be touching an open wound, but the feeling of the blood slowing to a near stop and the torn flesh reforming almost completely –enough that there's barely a few scratches where gaping holes were before– is too much of a relief. His other hand flies behind the nape of Arkaios's head, tangling in the now shorter but still flowy and messy hair he would never admit to loving so much.

"I'll be damned, little brother!" Mimir says, unable to contain his excitement, "You're a right little genius!"

Atreus can barely sit back and nod, breathless. He is only now feeling the exertion of the entire battle, and his body basically comes crashing down on him. There are tears streaks down his eyes, his fingers are bruised and torn, he is out of arrows and nearly lost someone he loves – _again_... and yet, he's none too worse for the wear, Arkaios is safe from death's clutches, and they have prevailed.

He locks eyes with Arkaios, and a disbelieving giggle leaves his mouth. The Spartan returns the smile and even laughs tiredly himself. Soon enough, they're both laughing without knowing why, and Arkaios pats Kratos on the shoulder to reassure that he is ok and have the space to turn and hug Atreus.

They hold each other until the boy's laughter turns to tears and beyond.

"It's okay... my boy, my brave, smart boy..." Arkaios coos, caressing the sides of Atreus's head with bloody hands, "It's all right... you saved me again."

"I was... really scared."

"I know, blessed one, I know..." coming to think of it, Atreus has been the best among them in this battle: he adapted efficiently, protected Arkaios so he could lend more power to Kratos, and eventually saved his life using a loophole in a magic spell that was riskier than anything they'd tried before. "You did well, Atreus."

Once they all calm down enough to stand, they gather their wits and assess the damage. The shore and the area around it have been predictably defaced, the small boat they had used to come here little more than scraps of wood itself.

"Lads, I will be the first to say I'm happy everyone is alive and mostly safe..." Mimir eventually says, glancing around them, "But I have to suggest we get out of here as fast as possible."

The chaos of a battle only attracts more creatures, after all, or even worse, reavers wanting to prey on whoever is left standing.

Kratos spares a glance to Váli's corpse.

Eyes rolled upwards and an arrow sticking out between them, a pool of blood underneath his head and skin getting more and more emaciated by the second... he is not getting up anytime soon. Definitely dead.

Turning to face his lover, Kratos allows himself to take a deep breath in and out in relief. Arkaios is still hurt and will probably need a lot of rest, but he is not dead –the younger Spartan's blood still stains his hands uncomfortably all the way to the elbows, but Arkaios pulled through. Thanks to the combined efforts of his magic and Atreus's quick thinking, Kratos has been able to see his loved one saved, this time. He nods to himself and runs a hand down the side of his boy's cheek –he couldn't be more proud.

"Let us gather our things and move on." The man eventually says, fishing a bandage out of his pack and motioning for Arkaios to come to him, "The nearest blue door is just beyond these woods, we should be able to reach it before fatigue gets the best of us."

Arkaios is silent as he takes off pauldron and fur vest, to lift his tunic and give Kratos access to bandage his chest –again– but there's the familiar sort of secretive and slightly disbelieving smile he would always have, finding himself alive after a battle none of his comrades expected him to make it through.

"You will have to help me cut the rest of my hair into shape." He finally whispers, leaning into the embrace –and how very like him for that to be the first thing he says.

Fighting back a smile, Kratos nods his assent minutely. "I refuse to chop off more than necessary."

The slightly breathless laughter that follows has Kratos painfully aware of how very nearly lost this. Bandaging done, he snakes both arms around his lover's torso and holds him there for a few moments, just listening to the other's heart beating. Still beating, safe, _together_.

Arkaios takes a very long handful of seconds before he speaks up: "Do not take this the wrong way, my love, but you're holding me bare-chested in the open and I'm freezing."

Right. They should get moving. Also Kratos is finding it more and more difficult to refuse Arkaios anything when the younger calls him _that_.

He doesn't miss the way Atreus giggles, bow, quiver and backpack long gathered and ready to go.

"Not _a word_ , boy."

The child makes a show of squishing a hand to his lips and nodding, smiling radiantly behind his fingers all the same.

"So... Head."

Mimir perks up at Kratos's call. "Yes, brother?"

"What now? About Ragnarok."

Glowing eyes grow pensive as he takes the time to ponder. "Well. One way or the other it will happen, with or without vengeful wankers stomping about." He muses, carried along as the three walk towards their destination, "That Váli was supposed to survive was an ancillary detail, just like his awakening was simply one of the telling signs that Fimbulwinter had started. And you do exist outside the prophecy, so..."

"We basically have no idea what will happen now. Again."

Atreus doesn't sound too distraught about it at all. He is happily trotting along, the only sign of his earlier fear and despair showing in the iron grip he holds Arkaios's hand in, walking side by side with the Spartan, who just shrugs.

"I don't know about you guys, but I've had enough about prophecies to last me a while."

Wishful thinking… because when did trouble ever not follow them? Kratos shakes his head. There surely will be more battles to come and more people to want them dead for no reason.

But even so, he realizes, he's ready to face them. He's ready to face anything with his son and his lover by his side –and even the reanimated Head who calls him 'brother'.

Kratos slows down, enough to be at Arkaios's other side and lace fingers with him –even battered and bloody, it's the best he's ever felt.

Funnily enough, he recalls that one riddle he and Atreus solved back at the very start of their journey.

_As we are, we two, we three;_

_As I alone can never be._

 

He also distinctly remembers the answer to the riddle.

_Family._

 

Kratos takes a deep breath, finally sure of why he came to this land, why he stayed, why he did go to the mountain those surprisingly few days ago.

He may not believe in prophecies, but if it is true that things happen for a reason...

...he just found his reasons, they are walking by his side right now.

And he will not let them go without a fight, ever.

Come what may, they will face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8yY8mZ-pIQ) to the song, from a Scandinavian band whose album was, funnily enough, titled Ragnarok. The lyrics themselves are not really connected to the plot, it's the story of two brothers or whatever, but it's a song with a very strong and motivational beat.  
>  Also in this chapter we finally understand, for those here who ever played D&D, that Arkaios is basically a bard (while Atreus is a ranger or rogue and Kratos is a warrior with Weapon Proficiency III and Improved Unarmed Strike) XD
> 
> So! All well that ends well. Freya actually hated Váli just as much as we did, even though she coldly watched Arkaios almost die -to be fair, she didn't know the extent of what his magic voice could do, so she really thought he was done for.  
> Then again, with Ragnarok still approaching strong she will probably have much more on her hands than this Spartan asshole and his family to worry about.
> 
> Still, there will probably be a nice little Epilogue sometimes soon, just to settle the dust after the battle. But the story is pretty much done.  
> Hope it was a good one. ♥


	11. Epilogue - For Better or For Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something to tie it all together in a little bow.
> 
> I know technically the Atreus dream thing happens right after Baldur's death, but I've already inserted an OC and created a new villan, what do I care about moving around a few cutscenes? ;)
> 
> Eiter way. It was a mad, wild ride.  
> Thanks to everyone who has joined me.
> 
> I'm sorry if this seems short and lackluster, I just had the tiny concept for the nightmare scene and it wouldn't leave me alone despite the ending as it was being technically enough.  
> Either way.... here. <3

"Hold still, I do not want to ruin it." Kratos's deep voice rumbles through Arkaios's skin as his lips trace the younger man's shoulder, making him chuckle.

"It's a bit hard to sit still when you do that." He protests, voice not nearly as reprimanding as it should be, "You're supposed to be cutting my hair."

They are back in the dwarven workshop; Arkaios is sitting cross-legged on the floor, with his eyes half-lidded and Kratos behind him.

Atreus is excitedly recounting their battle to Brok and Sindri, dutifully watched over by Mimir, perched as he has been on the work table, to alert the other two as soon as the boy inevitably falls unconscious once his body finally allows him to feel exactly how tired he is.

Soothed by hands carding through his hair and the careful snips of Kratos's knife, Arkaios eventually closes his eyes and goes still. "You know, I would gladly let you chop off all of my hair if it always feels like this."

 The older man chuckles low in his throat. "I think _that_ would be the one guilt to kill me."

It's definitely not the best joke to grace the Temple of Tyr, but it stuns the workshop into silence that Kratos made one at all. Atreus is the first to recover, giggling slightly to himself as he looks over to the two.

"It looks really good, Arkaios!"

Self-consciously, the Spartan runs a hand behind his neck, feeling much shorts strands cover it, now that his hair barely touches his shoulders in messy waves. He sighs despite himself as he smiles back.

"Well, regardless of anything, it's just hair. It grows back eventually."

Kratos knows that tone. Basically growing up in his garrison, Arkaios was never the strongest, or the most capable in battle, he had exactly three things to say for himself: he was fast, he knew how to sing, and goddamn it all he was beautiful, with his lovely sun-kissed skin and his long red hair. It's not very rational, but it is only human to feel slightly at a loss after having to renounce one of the three things that made him himself. Not quite knowing what else to do, Kratos leans in to whisper in the younger man's ear:

"I like it. It makes it easier for me to take a bite at you."

It earns him both of Arkaios's hands slapping over his mouth and shoving him away, with a chastising "Don't make promises that you can't see through while in front of your son!", but Arkaios laughs as he shakes his head so, Kratos muses, it's worth the weird looks he receives from dwarves and Head alike.

He cannot blame them –they only ever saw him stern, angry or angrier; it's easy to forget that there's still a person underneath it all. He is not that much different, but with Atreus and Arkaios by his side, he remembered that, however long, he still only gets one life, and it is alright to make it known to the people you love that you _do_ love them, if  only when it is safe enough to let your guard down.

They spend the rest of the evening resting and planning how to fix the hole that still sits right on the roof of their little cabin in the woods.

 

Time passes, and life… it surprisingly goes on. Having Arkaios with them is nothing short of a dream, their cabin feels like a home again, they take turns bringing Atreus out to hunt and they keep close tabs on possible undead uprisings or other sings of Ragnarok.

Right. Ragnarok.

Kratos has been paying closer attention to Mimir’s advice, recently, and the Head has explained a troubling fact to him: the more they try to fight the oncoming fate, the bigger and badder the consequences will be –regardless of what _anyone_ has to say about it, Ragnarok will happen.

A self-fulfilling prophecy: one can make it happen while trying to prevent it.

Such grim thoughts sometimes bring him nightmares of a family he had long lost, destroyed by his own hand. It is one such night, he dreams about Lysandra and Calliope, how he blindly slaughtered both of them, too consumed by his rage to see through Ares’s ruse. In the dream, Lysandra and Calliope’s bodies twist and change: soon enough, he is staring at the bloodied remains of Atreus and Arkaios, eyes unblinking and mouths opened in quiet horror.

It’s enough to wake him with a start in the darkness.

“Kratos?”

A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

He tries to get his breathing under control; putting his hand over the one Arkaios has just splayed on his chest when he whispered his call. “I am… fine.”

“You are trembling, my love.” The younger whispers, scooting even closer if possible and resting his head on Kratos’s bare shoulder, “You are _not_ fine. Talk to me.”

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Kratos knows there’s no way he could ever say no to _that_ particular tone of voice. “It was only… the same dream again.”

“Want me to chase it away?” which, whispered like that, it would usually mean Arkaios sitting on his lap and doing things to him that made him forget his own name.

Very tempting, but not something Kratos feels like doing at the moment. He shakes his head, hugging Arkaios closer to his chest. “How long before it comes true?”

“Kratos—”

“How long before someone or something else gets drawn here because they have a grudge with the _Ghost of Sparta_?” the former God has clearly a lot of pent-up emotions about this. “How long before my past or my nature get my love and my little boy killed?”

This time Arkaios does shrug off Kratos’s arm to sit on his lap, but there’s nothing sensual about the way he firmly grasps the sides of the man’s tattooed face: “Listen to me, now.” He says, a stern finality in his voice even though he’s still whispering, not to wake Atreus, “We’re not your _charges_. We’re your _family._ And we are _warriors_. We both trained under you and can protect ourselves. For better or for worse, we will stay by your side, and you can’t get rid of us.”

“Even when it can mean your death?”

Arkaios places a chaste kiss on Kratos’s lips before answering: “If it’s death who is waiting for me on the other side of Ragnarok, I shall meet it happily and with no regrets, because I will have treasured. Every. Single. Moment. With you.”

Each of the last few words is punctuated by a kiss.

Kratos’s hands go rest at the sides of Arkaios’s neck, where it meets the jawline, his fingers unashamedly diving into the messy locks they find. He does feel a bit better.

“What would I ever do without you?”

Arkaios smiles against his lips. “You’d be very sour and serious, and then you would remember you have a wonderful son that loves you.”

The very words make Kratos chance a glance over to where Atreus is sleeping peacefully, only turning this or that way ever so slightly.

He sighs contentedly as he hugs his lover’s frame close.

It is true –the reality is that they are here, they are together, and they will meet future looking at it in the eye.

 

Morning meets them already prepared to go out and about.

“Atreus, are you ready?”

“Yeah, but… I had the weirdest dream.” The boy replies, gathering his bow and quiver, “Fimbulwinter was ending; and Thor came for us, here at the house!”

Kratos shares a look with Arkaios, who smiles softly and swipes a soft caress on the boy’s brow, saying nothing.

“It was only a dream.” His father assures.

Atreus grips Arkaios’ hand in soft protest: “But it felt different. It felt real…” he turns his big blue eyes to his father, “It felt like… the future.”

Giving into the urge to comfort _that_ face, Kratos tries: “Then we will worry about it tomorrow.” He offers, once more chancing a look over his boy’s head at Arkaios, who returns it with a wink of his own, “Today, there are still things we can do.”

In a way that is becoming more and more frequent, Kratos smiles slightly as he beckons Atreus to the door. “Come.”

It surprises Kratos how much he actually believes it, this time.

Ragnarok can come at them if it so desires.

They won’t break, and they won't fear it –because they are together.


End file.
